#beta mentalist

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part IX — The Christening

Your little guy is soft in Anne's hand — spent, tiny, resting — and the phantom of a pussy still pulses between your legs.

Anne releases him. She stands. Her harness is still on — the cock still glistening with the evidence of what she did to you — and she walks to the bathroom without a word. The door closes. Water runs.

Meredith lies beside you. Her hand is on your stomach. Her breathing is slow.

And across the room — the Captain.

He hasn't moved. He's still on the couch. His cock is still out — still enormous, still thick, still dark — and it hasn't softened. Not even a little. Laurie's mouth was on it, her throat was around it, and he didn't finish.

He's been waiting.

Laurie rises from her knees. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand. She looks at the Captain. Then at you. Then at Meredith.

"It's time," she says.

Two words. Simple. Final. The kind of words that don't invite discussion.

Meredith sits up. Her eyes find Laurie's. Something passes between them — a signal, a permission, a transfer of authority.

"Come here, Mere," Laurie says. Her voice is warm. The honey voice. The voice that makes the air change.

Meredith slides off the bed. She crosses the room. Her sundress is gone — she's naked, her body lithe and golden in the dim light — and she kneels beside Laurie.

Laurie takes her face in her hands. Holds her. Looks at her the way a mother looks at a daughter who has done something brave.

"You were wonderful tonight," Laurie says. "Both of you. But there's one more thing."

She turns Meredith's face toward the Captain. Toward his cock — still rigid, still waiting, still enormous.

The Captain's cock is thick — thicker than Anne's, thicker than Meredith's, thicker than anything she's taken before.

The head is swollen, dark, glistening with Laurie's saliva. The shaft is ridged with veins. It rises from the open fly of his dress whites like a column, like something architectural, something structural.

"He's magnificent," Laurie says. She wraps her hand around the base — her fingers don't meet, they never meet — and strokes. Slow. Reverent. "Why don't you get to know him better?"

Meredith leans forward. Her tongue finds the head. She licks — slow, circular, the way Laurie licked him earlier. The Captain's hand finds the back of her head. His fingers thread through her hair.

Laurie watches. Her hand still wrapped around the base. She strokes in counterpoint to Meredith's mouth — Laurie's hand rising as Meredith's mouth descends, Laurie's hand falling as Meredith's mouth rises.

Two women. One cock. Working together.

"Mmmmm," Meredith hums. The sound vibrates against the shaft. The Captain's head falls back. A sound comes from his chest — low, deep, the sound of a man receiving what he is owed.

Laurie takes her hand away. She lets Meredith have all of him. Meredith's mouth slides down — past the head, past the ridge, down the shaft — and she takes him deeper than she took you, deeper than she took Bobby, deeper than you thought possible.

"Gggghh — mmmmmph —" The sounds are wet. Eager.

Meredith's throat opens and the Captain's cock disappears — inch by inch — until her lips are pressed against the base and her throat is bulging and she's holding, holding, holding —

She pulls back. Gasps. Strings of saliva connect her lips to his shaft. She looks up at him — and the look on her face is the look you know.

The look she gave you when she was wearing the harness. The look of someone who has a cock and knows what it's for.

Only now she's on her knees in front of one. And the hunger is the same.

"Good girl," Laurie says. She strokes Meredith's hair. "That's enough. He's ready."

Meredith pulls off. Wipes her mouth. Looks at Laurie with a question in her eyes.

Laurie looks at you.

"On your back, sweetheart," Laurie says. She turns to Meredith. "Now — on all fours. Over him. Pussy above his mouth."

Meredith climbs onto the bed. She straddles you — her knees on either side of your head, her pussy inches above your face.

She's wet. Swollen. Open. The lips are pink and glistening and you can see everything — every fold, every crease, the small swollen bud of her clit.

"Look up," Laurie says. "Look at her pussy. That's your girlfriend's pussy. That's the pussy you thought you'd fuck someday. The pussy you dreamed about."

You look up. Meredith's pussy is above you — beautiful, wet, close enough to taste. You can smell her — musk, salt, the faint sweetness of arousal.

"Now watch," Laurie says.

The Captain moves behind Meredith. His hands find her hips — his fingers wrapping around her waist.

His cock is between her legs — the head pressing against her pussy, the shaft resting against her slit, the size of him dwarfing her.

The Captain pushes inside.

"Oh — oh — OH —" Meredith's voice fills the room. Her back arches. Her pussy stretches — you can see it, inches from your face, the way her lips part around him, the way the head disappears, the way the shaft follows, thick and ridged and relentless.

She's wet. So wet. Her juice coats his cock — shining, glistening — and he pushes deeper, deeper, deeper, until his hips are pressed against her ass and she's full.

"There," Laurie says. "Look at that, little guy. That's what it looks like when a pussy meets a cock that was made for it. That's what it looks like when your girlfriend gets what she actually needs."

Your cock is hard. Straining. He's risen in his silk panties — small, rigid, desperate — and no one is touching him. No one needs to. The sight above you is enough.

The Captain fucks Meredith. Slow at first. Long strokes — pulling almost all the way out, then pushing back in, and each thrust makes Meredith gasp, makes her pussy clench, makes her wetness drip.

The drops fall on your face. On your lips. On your chin. Her slick — the evidence of her pleasure — landing on you while you lie beneath her and watch.

"Oh — oh God — oh — he's so — he's so big — he's —"

Meredith's voice is breathless. Broken. The words come in fragments between thrusts.

"Tell him, Mere," Laurie says. She's sitting on the edge of the bed now. Her hand finds your chest. Her fingers trace your collarbone. "Tell your boyfriend what it feels like."

"He's — oh — oh God — he's so much deeper than Bobby — he's — oh — he's hitting — he's hitting something —"

"The cervix," Laurie says. Calm. Informative. The voice of a teacher explaining anatomy.

"The Captain is long enough to reach her cervix. Bobby couldn't. Your little guy certainly can't. But the Captain — he's reaching places inside her that she didn't know existed. Places you'll never touch."

Meredith's thighs are shaking. Her pussy is clenching around the Captain's cock — you can see it, the way her lips grip him, the way she stretches and releases with each thrust.

Her clit is swollen, throbbing, untouched — and you're close enough to see every pulse.

"Play with her," Laurie says. She's looking at you. At your mouth. "Use your tongue. Give her something while he fucks her."

You lift your head. Your tongue finds her clit — swollen, slick, hot — and you lick. The taste hits you: musk, salt, lube, the Captain's cock. All of it mixed together. All of it on your tongue.

"Oh — oh — oh God — yes — yes —" Meredith's voice breaks. Her hips grind down against your face. The Captain's cock slides in and out above your eyes — thick, dark, glistening — and your tongue works her clit while he fucks her.

"Good boy," Laurie murmurs. Her hand finds your little guy — hard, straining, leaking through the silk. She doesn't stroke him. She just holds him. Gently. The way you hold a small animal. "Good little guy. You're helping. You're being useful. That's what you're for."

Your cock twitches in her hand. A pulse. A throb. He's trying — trying so hard — and Laurie's fingers are warm and still and patient.

Meredith's orgasm builds. You can feel it — in the way her thighs shake, in the way her clit pulses against your tongue, in the way her pussy clenches around the Captain's cock.

"Oh — oh — OH — I'm — I'm going to — oh GOD —"

She cums. Her whole body seizes. Her pussy clamps down on the Captain and her clit throbs against your tongue and her thighs squeeze your head and she screams — a sound so raw, so real, so different from anything she's made with you —

"AAAAHHHHH — oh — oh — ohhhhhhh —"

The Captain holds still inside her. He lets her cum. He lets her body do what it needs to do. His hands on her hips. Steady. Patient. A man who knows that a woman's pleasure is not a race.

Meredith collapses. Her weight falls forward. Her pussy lifts off the Captain's cock — wet, gaping, open — and you can see inside her. You can see what he's done. You can see the place he reached that you never will.

The Captain steps back. His cock is wet — covered in Meredith's juice, shining, still hard. He hasn't cum. He's been waiting.

Laurie stands.

"Now," she says. "The christening."

She looks at you. Her eyes are warm. Patient. The eyes that see through everything.

"Kneel," she says. "On the floor. At the foot of the bed."

You slide off the bed. Your knees find the carpet. Your little guy is still hard — small, straining, leaking — and he bounces as you move.

Meredith slides off the bed too. Laurie takes her hand. Leads her to the Captain's side.

"Stroke him," Laurie says. "The way I showed you. Both hands. Make a little pussy with your fingers."

Meredith wraps both hands around the Captain's cock. Her fingers interlace. She strokes his cock, root to tip. Up and Down.

"Look at your girlfriend," Laurie says. She's behind you now. Her hands on your shoulders. Her voice in your ear. "Look at her hands on his cock. Look at how small she is next to him. Look at how she worships him."

You look. Meredith's hands slide up and down the shaft — both of them, intertwined, a tunnel of fingers — and the Captain's hips rock forward, meeting her strokes.

Anne appears behind you. Her harness is gone. She's in a robe now — blue silk, loose. Her hands find your shoulders. She leans down. Her lips find your ear.

"Open your mouth," she whispers. "Wide. Stick out your tongue. That's it. Good girl."

You open. Your tongue extends. Your eyes are on Meredith's hands — on the Captain's cock — on the head, swollen, dark, leaking.

"He's going to mark you," Anne says. Her voice is calm. Certain. The voice of someone explaining a ritual.

"He's not going to fuck your mouth. He's not going to make you suck him. He's just going to cum. And Meredith is going to aim him. And you're going to take it."

"Why," you whisper. It's not a question. It's a sound. The last sound of resistance.

"Because this is how it ends, sweetheart," Laurie says. Her fingers trace your jaw. Her lips brush your ear.

"Because you came on this ship a boy who thought he'd fuck girls. And you're leaving it as someone else. Someone better. Someone that knows what his little guy is for."

Your cock twitches. Hard. Desperate. Untouched.

Meredith strokes faster. Her hands fly up and down the shaft. The Captain's breathing changes — deeper, heavier, the sound of something building.

"That's it," Laurie says. She's watching Meredith's hands. "Faster, Mere. He's close."

Meredith strokes faster. The Captain's hips buck. His hand finds Meredith's shoulder. His head falls back.

"Nnnngh — here it — here it comes —"

"Aim him," Laurie says. "Aim him at your boyfriend's face."

Meredith tilts the Captain's cock toward you. The head is inches from your face — swollen, dark, pulsing — and your mouth is open and your tongue is out and your eyes are wide and your little guy is straining in his silk panties, harder than he's ever been, and —

"AAAAHHHH —"

The first shot hits your cheek. Thick. Hot. White. It splashes across your face — from your jaw to your cheekbone — and the warmth of it is shocking, the weight of it real.

The second shot comes before you can react. It lands on your tongue — a thick, heavy rope of cum that fills your mouth, coats your tongue, spills over your lip.

"Oh — oh God —" The sound comes from your throat. Not a protest. Not a moan. Something between. Something new.

Meredith keeps stroking. The Captain keeps cumming. Shot after shot — thick, white, hot — landing on your face, your chin, your tongue, your cheek. Seven. Eight. Nine. Each one as strong as the last. Each one a declaration.

"Good girl," Laurie whispers. Her hand finds the back of your head. Gentle. Steady. "Take it. Take all of it. This is what you were made for."

Your little guy erupts. Hands-free. Untouched. He shoots into his silk panties — pulse after pulse, thin and weak and desperate — and the orgasm that rips through you is unlike anything you've felt.

Not the pussy orgasm. Not the button. Something else. Something that comes from the place where humiliation and arousal and surrender all meet.

"Nnnnngh — oh — oh — ohhhhhhh —"

Your cock spasms in his silk panties. Your face is covered in the Captain's cum. Your tongue is out. Your mouth is open. Your eyes are streaming.

Meredith leans forward. She kisses your forehead — soft, warm, the kiss of someone who loves you. Then she takes the Captain's cock and touches it to your cheek — gentle, almost tender — and wipes the last drop of cum across your lips.

"There," Laurie says. "Christened. Now you can clean up."

---

The shower is warm. The water runs clear. Meredith washes your hair. Her fingers are gentle. She hums something — a melody you don't recognize, something soft.

Your little guy is soft. Resting. Spent. He doesn't twitch when

Meredith's hand passes over him. He doesn't stir. He's sleeping the way he sleeps after everything Laurie has put him through — deeply, faithfully, at peace.

You dress. Plain clothes. Cotton boxers. The ones that feel like surrender.

Laurie is waiting in the sitting room. She's in her silver dress. Her hair is still pinned. Her lips are still painted. She looks like she could walk onstage right now and hold a theatre full of people in the palm of her hand.

Meredith holds your hand. Her fingers are warm in yours.

"I spoke to the Captain," Laurie says. She sips her wine. Sets it down. Looks at both of you with those eyes — the ones that see through clothing, through skin, through the layers of who you thought you were.

"He's offered you both permanent positions on the ship."

The room is quiet. The ocean moves beneath you. The moonlight comes through the porthole.

"You," Laurie says, nodding at you, "will continue as my assistant. You'll help with the shows. You'll do what you've been doing — only now it's your job. Your life."

She turns to Meredith. Her expression softens. Something passes across her face — not quite pride, not quite love, something in between.

"And you, Mere, will be my protégé. I'll teach you what I do. The mentalism. The psychology. The reading. The whispering. Everything I know about what men hide and how to find it."

Meredith's eyes fill. Her hand tightens in yours.

"I — really?"

Laurie smiles. Warm. Patient. The smile of someone who has been planning this since the first night, since the first whisper, since the first time she looked at your little guy and saw what he was.

"Really," she says. "The next cruise departs in two days. You'll both be on it. And every cruise after that. For as long as you want."

She picks up her wine. Takes a sip. Sets it down.

"Welcome to the ship," she says. "Welcome home."

You walk back to your cabin. Meredith's hand in yours. The corridor is quiet. The ship rocks gently. The ocean is dark and vast and endless.

In your cabin, you lie down. The narrow bunk. Meredith curls against you. Her hand finds your little guy — soft, resting, faithful — and holds him.

"Good girl," she whispers. And then, softer: "Good boy."

Your eyes close. The taste of the Captain lingers on your tongue. The phantom of a pussy still pulses between your legs. Your little guy is quiet, soft, empty, at peace.

You sleep.

This is the ninth and final part of a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II | The Mentalist Part III | The Mentalist Part IV | The Mentalist Part V | The Mentalist Part VI | The Mentalist Part VII | The Mentalist Part VIII

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part VIII — The Tag-Team

Suite 9090 is at the top of the ship, aft, where the hull curves toward the stern and the ocean falls away beneath you in every direction.

The sitting room is larger than your cabin six times over. Cream carpet. A bar of polished mahogany. Two balconies — one off the sitting room, one off the bedroom — their doors open to the night air and the sound of water.

Nicole is behind the bar. The Captain's Chief Steward — tall, dark-skinned, her hair pulled back in a severe bun, her uniform crisp and white. She's slicing a lime when you walk in. She doesn't look up.

The Captain is seated on the couch. He's still in his dress whites — the formal uniform from dinner — but the jacket is unbuttoned.

His wife Anne sits beside him. She's in a blue silk dress, her legs crossed, a glass of white wine in her hand.

Laurie is standing by the balcony door. The moonlight catches her silver dress. She smiles when she sees you.

Meredith is already inside. She's sitting on a barstool, her legs swinging, her bare feet not quite reaching the floor. She's in a sundress — yellow, simple — and she looks like a girl waiting for ice cream.

"Close the door and come and sit down," Laurie says.

You close it. You sit. The couch across from the Captain. The leather is cool against the back of your thighs.

Your little guy is resting in your boxers — the plain cotton ones, the ones that feel less like underwear and more like a surrender.

The Captain watches you. His eyes are calm, appraising. Not unkind. The eyes of a man who commands a ship and everything on it.

"Thank you for coming," he says. His voice is deep. Unhurried. "Laurie tells me you've been… an excellent assistant."

"He has," Laurie confirms. She moves from the balcony to the armchair beside the couch. She sits. Crosses her legs. The silver dress catches the light. "He's been the best I've ever had."

Anne sets her wine down. She leans forward. Her eyes find yours — and there's something in them you recognize. The hunger from last night. The look she had when she lowered herself onto your mouth in the dark.

"I watched your performance," Anne says. Her voice is softer than her husband's. Warmer. "I watched Meredith fuck you. I watched you cum like a girl."

Your face burns.

"I watched you," she continues, "and I thought: I want that."

She stands. Walks to you. Her hand finds your cheek — cool, gentle, the touch of someone who has already decided.

"Not like that," she says. "I don't want to be the girl. I've been the girl my whole life. I want to know what it feels like — to be the one with the cock. To be the one who fucks."

She kneels in front of you. Her hands on your knees. Her eyes level with yours.

"I want to fuck you," she says. "And I want Meredith to fuck you. Together."

Your mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"I —"

"You can say no," the Captain says from the couch. His voice is even. "This isn't an order. You're not my crew tonight. You're a guest in my home."

"But I'd love it if you said yes," Anne whispers. Her thumb traces the inside of your knee.

"I'd love it, sweetheart. I've been thinking about it all day. About what it would feel like to have a cock — to push it inside you — to feel you open up for me."

Meredith slides off her barstool. She crosses the room. Kneels beside Anne. Two women on their knees in front of you, looking up at you with eyes that are warm and certain and hungry.

"I want it too," Meredith says. "I've been thinking about it since last night. About doing it together. About both of us inside you."

"Two cocks," Anne murmurs. "One in your mouth. One in your pussy. Just like the girl in every fantasy you've ever had — only this time, you're the girl."

Your little guy stirs. A twitch. A pulse. He's waking up — not because you want him to, but because the words are doing what words do, what Laurie's words always do: reaching past your resistance and finding the place where your body keeps its secrets.

Laurie watches from the armchair. She smiles.

"There he is," she says. She's not looking at your face. She's looking at your lap. At the small, rising shape beneath the cotton.

"There's our little guy. He remembers, doesn't he? He remembers what it felt like to be a clit. To be fucked. To cum without being touched."

Your cock twitches again. Harder. More insistent. He's responding to her voice — to Laurie's voice — the way he always does. Obedient. Faithful. A dog hearing its master's call.

"He wants to say yes," Laurie says. "Don't you, little guy?"

Another twitch. Visible now. A small tent in the cotton.

"He's so honest," Laurie says.

Anne laughs — a warm, delighted sound. She reaches out. Her finger traces the shape of him through the fabric.

"He's so cute," she says. "I can see why Laurie talks to him. He's like a little pet."

"He is a pet," Laurie says. "My pet. And he's been very good. Haven't you, little guy?"

Your cock is fully hard now. Straining. Leaking. The cotton is damp at the tip.

"Tell them yes," Laurie says. "Tell them what your little guy already knows."

"I —" You swallow. Your throat is dry. Nicole appears beside you — silent, efficient — and places a glass of water in your hand. You drink. "Yes."

Anne's face lights up. She leans forward and kisses you — soft, warm, her lips tasting like wine. Meredith kisses your other cheek. Their hands find your body — your shoulders, your chest, the waistband of your boxers.

"Good girl," Anne whispers. And the words go through you like electricity.

The bedroom is dim. The balcony doors are open. The curtains move in the breeze.

You're on the bed. Naked. Your little guy is hard, small, straining — and beneath him, the place Laurie opened last night is back. The wetness. The warmth. The pulse that isn't his.

Anne stands at the foot of the bed. She's shed the blue dress. Beneath it — a harness. Black leather. Straps around her hips. And between her legs, a cock. Thicker than Meredith's. Darker. She strokes it with one hand, slow, confident.

Meredith is beside her. Her harness is back — the one from last night. She's already in mode. She's watching you with those eyes — the changed eyes, the man's eyes, the look that makes your stomach flutter.

"Come here, sweetheart," Anne says. You crawl to the edge of the bed. She takes your face in her hands.

"I've been wanting this all day. Wanting to know what it feels like. To be inside someone. To feel them open up."

She tilts your chin up. "Open your mouth."

You open.

She pushes inside.

"Mmmmmph —" The cock fills your mouth. Thicker than Meredith's — your jaw stretches, your lips strain.

She's patient. She doesn't rush. She lets you adjust, lets your throat open, lets your tongue find the underside of the shaft.

"Good girl," she breathes. Her hips rock forward. Slow. Gentle. "That's it. Take it."

Meredith climbs onto the bed behind you. Her hands find your hips. She lifts you — positions you — on your knees, your ass in the air, your mouth still full of Anne's cock.

You feel Meredith's fingers first. Slick. Warm. They find your opening — your pussy, your wet, aching, ready pussy — and circle. Press. Slide inside.

"Nnnngh —" The sound is muffled around Anne's cock. Your body shudders. Meredith's fingers stretch you, open you, prepare you.

"She's so wet," Meredith says. Her voice is low. The man's voice. "She's ready."

"Of course she is," Anne says. She strokes your cheek. "She was born ready."

Meredith withdraws her fingers. You feel the head of her cock — pressing, pushing, and then —

"Aaaahhh — oh — oh God —"

She slides inside. All the way. Your pussy opens and takes her and the fullness is back, the devastating, world-ending fullness that makes your spine light up and your little guy jump.

Anne fucks your mouth. Meredith fucks your pussy.

The rhythm builds — Anne pushing in as Meredith pulls back, Meredith pushing in as Anne pulls out — and you're between them, filled and emptied and filled again, a vessel for their pleasure, a girl being spit-roasted by two beautiful women with cocks.

"Mmmmmph — nnnngh — gggghhh —" The sounds from your throat are wet, raw, helpless. Your hands grip the sheets. Your eyes stream. Your little guy hangs beneath you, hard, untouched, leaking onto the white sheets.

Anne grips your hair. She fucks your mouth faster. Her hips snap forward and the cock hits the back of your throat and you swallow, swallow, swallow —

"Gggghh — mmmmmph — nnnngh —"

Meredith slams into your pussy. Her hands grip your hips. She fucks you hard — deep, relentless, each thrust hitting the button, the spot, the place that makes your whole body sing.

"Take it," Meredith says. Her voice is a growl. "Take both of us. Take our cocks like a good girl."

They fuck you. The rhythm is relentless — Anne in your mouth, Meredith in your pussy — and you're lost in it, drowning in it, your body nothing but a vessel for their pleasure.

Then Anne pulls out.

Your mouth is empty. Wet. Gasping. You look up at her — and she's smiling. Not Meredith's hungry smile. Something warmer. A woman's smile. The smile of someone who has tasted something she wants more of.

"Time to swap," Anne says.

Meredith withdraws from your pussy. The emptiness hits you like a wall — sudden, devastating, wrong. Your pussy clenches around nothing. Your hips buck, searching, begging.

"Shhh," Meredith says. She moves around the bed. Her cock is glistening — wet with your slick, with the lube, with the evidence of what she's done to you. She kneels in front of your face. "I'm right here."

Behind you, Anne moves into position. Her hands find your hips. Strong. Sure. The hands of a woman who has spent her life being held and has decided, tonight, to hold.

You feel the head of her cock against your opening. Pressing. Bigger than Meredith's. Thicker. The stretch begins — and it's too much. Too wide. Your body tenses.

"Nnnngh — wait — it's —"

"Look at me," Meredith says. She's right there. Her face inches from yours. Her hand finds your cheek. "Look at me, sweetheart."

You look. Her eyes are Meredith's eyes again — warm, brown, gentle. The girl's eyes. The eyes of someone who loves you.

"Breathe," she says. "Just breathe. In through your nose. Out through your mouth. That's it."

You breathe. In. Out. The tension in your body loosens — not all of it, not most of it, but enough.

"She's bigger," Meredith says. Her thumb traces your lower lip. "I know. I felt her in my hand. She's so much bigger than me. But you can take her. You were made to take her."

"I'm scared," you whisper. It's the truest thing you've ever said.

"I know, baby. I know." Meredith leans forward. Her lips find your forehead. A kiss — warm, soft, the kind of kiss that has nothing to do with sex and everything to do with love.

"But I'm right here. I'll be right here the whole time. And when she's inside you, when she's all the way inside — you're going to feel so full. So complete. Like you've never felt before."

Her cock is in front of your mouth. She doesn't push. She waits.

"Open for me," she says. "Let me fill your mouth while she fills your pussy. Both of us. Both holes. Both cocks."

You open.

Meredith slides inside — slow, gentle, past your tongue, into your throat. The taste of your own pussy is on her — musk, salt, the wetness that proves what you are.

And behind you — Anne pushes.

"MMMMMMPH — NNNNNGH —" The sound is muffled by Meredith's cock, but your whole body screams. Anne's head breaches you — thick, blunt, enormous — and the stretch is beyond anything Meredith prepared you for.

Beyond anything you imagined. Your pussy opens, opens, opens — and just when you think you can't take any more, she pushes deeper.

"Breathe," Meredith says. Her hand is on the back of your head. Her voice is calm. Steady. An anchor in the storm. "Breathe through it, baby. You're doing so well. She's almost there."

"Nnnngh — nnnngh — hhhhhh —" The sounds from your throat are high, thin, feminine. Your eyes stream. Your fingers grip the sheets so hard the fabric burns.

Anne's hips press against your ass. She's all the way in. Every inch of her cock. To the hilt. Balls deep.

The fullness is absolute — a presence so deep, so total, that it rearranges something inside you. Not just your body. Something else. Something that was holding on.

"There," Anne says. Her voice is breathless. Awed. "Oh God. I can feel her. I can feel all of her. She's so warm. So tight. So — open."

She pulls back. Pushes in. The rhythm begins — slower than Meredith's, deeper, each thrust a complete journey from tip to base.

Meredith matches her — pulling back when Anne pushes in, pushing in when Anne pulls back.

The two cocks slide in and out of you in a rhythm that feels like breathing, like a tide, like something the body remembers from before it was born.

"Mmmmmph — nnnngh — gggghhh —"

Your little guy hangs beneath you. Hard. Small. Untouched. He bounces with each thrust — a tiny, faithful, desperate thing — and no one pays him any attention.

He doesn't matter. He's never mattered. The only thing that matters is the two cocks inside you and the two women they belong to.

Through the tears, through the haze, you see them.

Across the room. On the couch.

Laurie is on her knees. The Captain is seated. His cock is out — enormous, thick, dark, bigger than anything on this ship. Bigger than Bobby's. Bigger than Anne's. A cock that makes all other cocks look like yours.

Laurie's hand wraps around it. Her fingers don't meet. She strokes him — slow, reverent, the way a woman handles something sacred.

"That's it," Laurie says. She's looking at you — at your face, stuffed with Meredith's cock, your eyes streaming, your body rocking between the two women. "Look at him, little guy. Look at the Captain's cock."

Your cock twitches. Bounces. He's listening. He's always listening to her.

"So much bigger than you," Laurie murmurs. She leans forward. Her tongue traces the head of the Captain's cock — slow, circular, deliberate. "So much more purposeful. So much more… real."

The Captain's hand rests on the back of Laurie's head. Gentle. Not forcing. Present.

His eyes are on you — watching you being fucked, watching your pussy swallow his wife's cock, watching your mouth worship Meredith's.

"Good girl," the Captain says. His voice is deep. Quiet. The voice of a man who has never needed to raise his. "Take their cocks. Take what they give you."

His words go through you like lightning. Your pussy clenches around Anne. Your mouth sucks Meredith harder. Your little guy jumps — a desperate, untouched pulse.

Laurie takes the Captain into her throat. All of him. Her lips stretch around the base and she holds — holds — holds — and the Captain's head falls back and a sound comes from his chest that you recognize.

The sound of a man being worshipped. The sound you will never make. The sound no one will ever make for you.

Anne fucks you harder. Her hips snap forward. The cock hits your button — that spot, that devastating spot — and each thrust sends sparks through your spine.

"Nnnngh — oh — oh — please — please —" The words spill from your mouth every time Meredith pulls out. Fragments. Shards. The last pieces of a language you're forgetting.

"She's close," Anne says. Her voice is different now — strained, breathless, the voice of someone approaching something. "She's so tight. She's clenching around me. I can feel her getting close."

"Make her cum," Meredith says. She pulls out of your mouth — lets you breathe, lets you speak, lets you feel. Her hand finds your cheek. "Make our girl cum."

Anne reaches around. Her hand finds your little guy — your small, hard, leaking, desperate little guy — and she wraps her fingers around him.

He's so small in her hand. So insignificant next to the cock between her legs. She doesn't stroke him. She just holds him. Holds him the way Laurie holds him — gently, the way you hold a small animal, something precious and fragile and not quite real.

And that's all it takes.

The warmth of her hand. The fullness of her cock. The button she's pressing with every thrust. The sight of Laurie swallowing the Captain. The sound of Meredith's voice in your ear.

"AAAAAHHHH — oh GOD — oh — oh — ohhhhhhh —"

Your orgasm tears through you. Your pussy clamps down on Anne's cock — so hard she gasps, so hard she stops thrusting, so hard she can barely move.

Your whole body seizes. Your back arches. And your little guy — your poor, faithful, tiny little guy — erupts in Anne's hand.

Cum shoots from your cock. Pulse after pulse. Thin, weak, desperate — nothing like the Captain's will be, nothing like a real man's — but enough. Enough to coat Anne's fingers. Enough to drip onto the sheets. Enough to prove what you are.

"Nnnnngh — oh — oh — mmmmm — ohhhhhhh —"

Your pussy spasms around Anne. Wave after wave. The pleasure radiates from inside you — from the button, from the place that used to be a cock and is now the center of everything — and it fills you, floods you, breaks you open and puts you back together in a shape you don't recognize.

Anne holds still inside you. She lets your body do what it needs to do. Her hand — the one holding your little guy — is covered in your cum. She brings it to her lips. Tastes.

"Sweet," she says. "Like a girl's."

Meredith lies beside you. Her hand finds your stomach. Her lips find your ear.

"Good girl," she whispers. "Good girl. Good girl."

Your body stops shaking. The aftershocks fade. Anne withdraws — slowly, carefully — and the emptiness returns, but it's different now. Not aching. Not begging. Just open. Just waiting.

Your little guy is soft in Anne's cum-covered hand. Spent. Tiny. Resting.

Across the room, Laurie pulls off the Captain's cock. She looks at you. She smiles.

"The night is just getting started, sweetheart," she says.

This is the eighth in a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II | The Mentalist Part III | The Mentalist Part IV | The Mentalist Part V | The Mentalist Part VI | The Mentalist Part VII

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part VII — The Inversion

The summons comes just before midnight.

Not a knock — a steward brings a note, folded once, Laurie's handwriting on the inside: Come to my suite. Now. Bring yourself.

Meredith is already there when you arrive. She's sitting on the edge of Laurie's bed — the real bed, not the narrow ship bunks but a queen with a duvet the color of cream — and she's bouncing. Actually bouncing.

Her knees together, her hands gripping the mattress, her whole body vibrating with something that can only be described as delight.

"There he is!" She jumps up. Grabs your hand. Squeezes. "Oh my God. Oh my God."

"What's happening?"

Laurie is standing by the porthole, a glass of wine in her hand, still in her silver dress from the second show. She hasn't changed. Her hair is still pinned. Her lips are still painted.

"Close the door, sweetheart. Sit down."

You sit. Meredith doesn't sit — she paces, circles, returns to the bed, bounces again. She can't contain it.

Laurie sips her wine. Watches you with those eyes — the ones that see through clothing, through skin, through the layers of resistance you've been building since the night she first whispered in your ear.

"Every cruise," she says, "I host a private show. One night. Selected guests only — invited by the Captain. Twelve couples. No cameras. No phones. No record of any kind."

She pauses. Lets the words settle.

"These shows are… more intimate than what I do in the theatre. More uninhibited. The guests are close — near the stage, near the performers. They're encouraged to unwind. To let their passions take them."

She smiles. Warm. Patient.

Meredith squeals. Actually squeals — a sound so bright and girlish it doesn't seem to belong in this cabin, in this conversation, in this life you're living now.

"It's a sex show," Meredith confirms, as though you might not have understood. She grabs your hands. Her eyes are shining. "And Laurie wants us to be in it. The performers."

Your stomach drops.

"I — what?"

"Performers," Laurie repeats. She sets her wine down. Sits across from you in the armchair by the window. Crosses her legs. The silver dress catches the moonlight through the porthole.

"You and Meredith. On stage. In front of our guests."

The room tilts. Your hands are still in Meredith's. Your little guy is resting in the cotton boxers you put on this morning — the plain ones, the ones that feel like a cage — and he doesn't stir.

He hasn't stirred since the countdown, since the carpet, since your own cum pooled on your tongue.

"You want me to —" You swallow. "To have sex. With Meredith. On stage."

Meredith giggles. Laurie smiles.

"Sweetheart," Laurie says, and her voice drops into that register — the warm honey, the slow current — "your little guy isn't designed for sex. We've established that. You know that. He knows that."

She nods toward your lap. "Don't you, little guy?"

Your cock twitches in response to her voice. Obedient. Faithful.

"So yes," Laurie continues. "You'll be having sex. But not in the way you're imagining."

She leans forward. Her elbows on her knees. Her eyes locked on yours.

"I've been working on something new. A performance I've never attempted. I call it Inversion."

The word hangs in the air. You don't know what it means. You don't ask.

"I need you to trust me," Laurie says. "Both of you. I need you to love each other, and I need you to trust me, and I need you to say yes."

Meredith is already nodding. Fast, eager, certain.

"I love him," she says. It's simple. It's true. She says it the way she'd say the sky is blue.

"I trust you," you whisper. And it's true too. That's the worst part. It's true.

"Good." Laurie stands. "The show begins in one hour. Meredith — there's a wardrobe in the bathroom. You'll find what you need. Go get ready."

Meredith kisses your cheek — quick, warm, electric — and disappears into the bathroom. The door closes.

Laurie looks at you.

"Are you afraid, sweetheart?"

"No."

"Good boy."

---

The lounge is small. Intimate. Twelve couches arranged in a semicircle around a raised platform — not a stage, exactly, more like a bed. A large bed. White sheets. Soft lighting from sconces on the walls, amber and warm.

The guests file in. Couples. Older, mostly. Wealthy. The women in cocktail dresses, the men in jackets without ties. They take their places. Wine is poured. The lights dim.

The Captain and his wife sit in the center.

She's the woman from last night — the one who lowered her asshole onto your mouth in the dark. You would recognize her from her scent alone. She sees you. Her lips curve. She doesn't speak.

Laurie takes the stage.

"Good evening," she says. Her voice fills the room without effort. "I'm Madam Lorien. And tonight, I'm going to show you something I've never shown anyone."

She pauses. The room is silent.

"Tonight, I introduce you to my protégé. A young woman I'll be taking on and training. A woman who is going to learn, tonight, what it means to take control."

She extends her hand. Meredith steps onto the platform.

She's dressed differently now. A black silk robe, floor-length, belted at the waist. Her hair is down — loose, blonde, falling past her shoulders.

She looks older. Commanding. Beautiful in a way that makes your chest tighten.

"This is Meredith," Laurie says. "And this —" She extends her other hand. You step up. The light finds you. You're in a white robe, thin, nearly transparent. Your little guy is visible beneath it — soft, small, resting in a pair of silk panties Laurie selected for you. "— is our assistant."

Laurie turns to the audience. "Tonight's performance is called Inversion. I've never attempted it before because I've never had a male assistant before. But tonight — tonight, we're going to do something transgressive."

She looks at you. Then at Meredith. Then at the audience.

"Inversion will swap their sexuality. Where he once saw himself as the man, he will now see himself as the woman. And Meredith, who has always been the woman, will now see herself as the man."

A murmur ripples through the audience. A woman in the front row leans forward. Her husband's hand tightens on her knee.

Laurie turns to Meredith. She whispers in her ear — something long, something low, something you can't hear but can feel, a vibration in the air that makes the hair on your arms stand.

Meredith's eyes change. Not all at once. Slowly. A shift in the set of her jaw. A widening of her stance. Her shoulders square. Her chin lifts.

She looks down at you — and the look is different. Not Meredith's look. Not warm, not girlish, not soft.

A man's look. Hungry. Certain. Possessive.

Laurie whispers in your ear.

And the world changes.

Your cock — your little guy, resting in his silk panties — is gone. Not gone. Transformed. Where he was, there is something else. Something smaller. Something softer. A warmth. A wetness. A pulse that isn't his.

You reach down. Your fingers find the silk. And beneath it — not a cock. A clit. Small, swollen, sensitive. And below that — an opening. A pussy. Your pussy.

Your breath catches.

"Good girl," Laurie murmurs. Only you can hear. "Don't be afraid. This is what you were meant to feel."

Meredith steps toward you. She unties her robe. It falls open. Beneath it — a harness. Black leather straps around her hips, her thighs. And between her legs — a cock.

Not a dildo, not to her. To her, to the woman whose eyes have changed, whose stance has shifted, whose jaw has set — it's real. It's hers. It's hard.

She strokes it. Her hand wraps around the shaft and she pulls — slow, confident, the way Bobby must have stroked himself before he fucked and split her open on the bunk that smells like him.

"On your knees," Meredith says. Her voice is different. Lower. Commanding. Not unkind — never unkind — but certain. The certainty of someone who has a cock and knows what it's for.

You kneel. The platform is soft beneath your knees. The white sheets are cool against your skin. Meredith's cock is in front of your face — thick, dark, the head swollen and glistening.

"Open," she says.

You open your mouth.

She pushes inside.

"Mmmmmph—" The sound is muffled. Your lips wrap around the head. The shaft slides over your tongue. You can taste it — salt, silicone, something faintly musky. Your mouth fills with her.

"Nnnngh —" You gag. She pulls back. Pushes in again. Deeper. Your throat opens. Your eyes water.

"That's it," Meredith says. Her hand finds the back of your head. Her fingers grip your hair. "Good girl. Take it. Take my cock."

She fucks your mouth. Slow at first. Then faster. Her hips rock forward and the cock slides in and out — over your tongue, past your tonsils, into your throat.

You breathe through your nose. You swallow. You try to keep up.

In the audience, a woman drops to her knees in front of her husband. She unzips him. Takes his cock into her mouth. Another couple follows. Then another.

"Gggghh — nnnngh —" The sounds from your throat are wet, raw, desperate.

Meredith holds your head and fucks your face and you take it — you take all of it — because this is what your mouth is for. This is what you were made for.

She pulls out. Your mouth is empty. Your chin is wet. You gasp.

Meredith looks down at you. Her expression has shifted — not Meredith's expression anymore, not the warm, girlish smile. Something else. Something heavier.

Her eyes are half-lidded, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. She's looking at you the way Bobby must look at her. The way men look at women who are on their knees.

"Look at me, sweetheart," she says. Her voice is low. Soft. The way a guy talks to a girl after she's done something that pleased him. "Look at me."

You look up. Your eyes are watering. Your lips are swollen, slick with saliva. You feel — small. Pretty. Something you've never felt before. Something that has nothing to do with being a man.

Her finger finds your cheek. Traces the line of your jaw. Runs across your lower lip — slow, deliberate, the way you'd trace the edge of something delicate.

"You're such a good little cocksucker," she murmurs. The words are sweet. Tender. She says them the way someone might say you're so beautiful or I'm proud of you. "That's it. That's my good girl."

Your face burns. Your stomach flutters. Not your cock — he's still sleeping in his silk panties, untouched, irrelevant. Something else. Something deeper. The place that Laurie opened, the place that isn't a cock anymore.

"Give it a little kiss," Meredith says. She tilts her cock toward your lips. The head is wet, glistening, flushed dark. "Just a little one. Right on the tip."

You lean forward. Your lips find the head. You kiss it — soft, gentle, the way you've never kissed anything before.

Not a mouth, not a cheek, not a girl. This. This hard, warm, swollen thing that belongs to the woman who used to be your girlfriend and is now — something else. Someone else.

"Good girl," she breathes. Her hand slides to the back of your head. Her fingers thread through your hair. "Now open."

You open.

She pushes back inside. Slow. Deep. Past your tongue, past the resistance, past the place where your throat tries to close — and then deeper, all the way, until your nose is pressed against her and your throat is full of her and you can't breathe, can't think, can do nothing but hold still and take it.

"Mmmmmph — nnnngh —"

She holds you there. Her hips pressed against your face. Her cock buried in your throat. She looks down at you — and her expression is something you've never seen on Meredith's face before. Pride. Ownership. The look of someone who has claimed something.

"You're so pretty down there," she says. Her voice is barely above a whisper but it fills your skull. "On your knees. Sucking your first cock. Such a pretty girl."

"Gggghh —" Your throat vibrates around her. Your eyes are streaming. Your hands grip the sheets beneath you — white-knuckled, desperate, holding on.

She pulls back. Lets you breathe. You gasp — a ragged, wet, shuddering breath — and she pushes in again, and again, and the rhythm builds, and you're not choking anymore, you're sucking, your cheeks hollowing, your tongue working, your throat opening like it was made for this.

"Good girl," Meredith says. "Good little cocksucker. Take it all."

She strokes your cheek. Her thumb traces your lower lip. "Now. On the bed. On your back."

You lie down. The sheets are beneath you. The audience is above — faces in the amber light, watching, touching, fucking. A woman two couches back is riding her husband, her head thrown back, her mouth open.

Meredith climbs between your legs. She reaches for something on the bedside table — a bottle. She pours it onto her fingers. Warm. Slick.

Her hand finds you. Finds the place where your little guy used to be — the place that is now wet, open, aching. Her finger circles the opening. Presses. Slides inside.

"Aaaahhh —" The sound that comes from you is high, breathless, feminine. Your back arches. Your legs spread wider. Her finger is inside you — inside your pussy — and the sensation is unlike anything you've ever felt.

Not the tight pull of your cock, not the sharp pulse of your own hand. Something deeper. Something warmer. Something that radiates outward from the place where she's touching you and fills your whole body with light.

She adds a second finger. Stretches you. You moan.

"Nnnnngh — oh — oh God —"

"Does that feel good, baby?" Meredith's voice is low. Her eyes are on yours. She's watching your face the way Laurie watches — reading every flicker, every tremor.

"Yes — yes — please —"

"Please what?"

"Please — more —"

She adds a third finger. You gasp. Your hips buck against her hand. The wetness is pooling beneath you — your wetness, your pussy's wetness, soaking into the white sheets.

In the audience, a woman is on all fours. Her husband is behind her. Another woman is beneath her, mouth on her breasts. The room is filling with the sound of sex — wet, rhythmic, the slap of skin on skin, the chorus of moans and gasps.

Meredith withdraws her fingers. You whimper at the loss — the emptiness, the ache.

Then you feel it. The head of her cock. Pressing against your opening. Wet with lube. Warm.

"Tell me you want it," Meredith says.

"I want it."

"Tell me you want me to fuck you."

"I want you to fuck me. Please. Please fuck me."

She pushes inside.

"AAAAHHHH —" The sound tears from your throat. Your whole body seizes. The cock fills you — thick, deep, relentless — and the sensation is beyond anything.

Beyond the countdown. Beyond the carpet. Beyond every late-night fantasy in every dark room of your life. This is what it feels like. This is what you were missing. This is what your little guy was never meant to give you.

She fucks you. Slow at first. Then faster. Her hips drive forward and the cock slides in and out — in and out — and each thrust hits something inside you, a spot, a button, a place that sends sparks through your spine and into your skull.

"Nnnngh — nnnngh — oh — oh — oh God — oh Meredith — please — please don't stop —"

"Good girl," she breathes. Her hands grip your hips. She pulls you onto her. "Good girl. Take it. Take all of it."

The audience is fucking. The room is a symphony of bodies — couples tangled, moaning, gasping. The Captain's wife is on her knees, her face buried between another woman's legs. The Captain is behind her, his hands on her hips.

And you — you're on your back, your legs in the air, your pussy full of Meredith's cock, and your little guy — your real little guy, the one who's been sleeping in his silk panties this whole time — is twitching. Stirring. Rising.

Not because anyone is touching him. Because of what's happening inside you. Because of the button Meredith is pressing, the spot she's finding, the place that makes your whole body sing.

Your cock hardens. Strains. Leaks. It juts from your silk panties — small, rigid, desperate — and no one touches it. No one needs to.

"Aaaahhhh — I'm — I'm going to — something's happening — something —"

"Let it happen, baby," Meredith says. She fucks you harder. Faster. The cock slams into your button with every thrust. "Let it come."

Your whole body tightens. Your back arches. Your pussy clenches around her cock and your little guy — your poor, faithful, sleeping little guy — erupts.

"AAAAHHHHH — oh GOD — oh GOD — ohhhhhhh —"

The cum shoots from your cock without being touched. Hands-free. Pulse after pulse — thick, white, arcing through the air, landing on your stomach, your chest, your chin.

Your pussy spasms around Meredith's cock. Your whole body shakes. The pleasure radiates from inside you — from the button, from the place you never knew you had — and it fills you, floods you, breaks you open.

"Nnnnngh — nnnngh — mmmmm — oh — oh — ohhhhhhh —"

You collapse. The sheets are wet beneath you. Your cock softens. Your pussy still pulses — aftershocks, tremors, the echo of something that has rearranged every cell in your body.

Meredith pulls out. She lies beside you. Her hand finds your cheek.

"Good girl," she whispers. And then, softer: "Good boy."

Laurie takes the stage. The audience is still fucking, still moaning, still lost in the world she's created. She doesn't stop them. She lets them have it.

She takes your hand. Takes Meredith's hand. Leads you both off the platform, through the lounge, past the tangled bodies and the wet sounds and the amber light, back to her suite.

The bed is still warm. The duvet is still cream-colored. The porthole lets in the moonlight.

Laurie lies on one side. Meredith on the other. You in the middle. Their bodies curl against yours. Their hands find your stomach, your chest, the place where your little guy rests — soft, spent, faithful.

"You were wonderful," Laurie whispers. "Both of you. The best I've ever seen."

Meredith's breathing slows. Her hand rests on your cock — gentle, protective.

Your eyes close. The taste of cock lingers on your tongue. The phantom of a pussy still pulses between your legs. Your little guy is quiet, soft, empty.

You sleep.

This is the seventh in a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II | The Mentalist Part III | The Mentalist Part IV | The Mentalist Part V | The Mentalist Part VI

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part VI — The Pussy-Service

Meredith is sitting on Bobby's bunk — the one that still smells like him, like his cologne, like the sex he's been having on it every night while you lie on your back on the other bunk with the taste of his cum in your mouth.

Beside her is her friend Rachel. Shorter. Darker hair — brown, not blonde — pulled into a messy bun. She's still in her service uniform, the white polo unbuttoned one button too many, the khaki shorts riding high on her thighs. She's pretty in a way that feels approachable — not intimidating, not distant, just — warm.

Meredith is sitting cross-legged, her shoes kicked off, her ponytail loose. She's holding a bottle of wine — something she liberated from the bar — and she's already halfway through it.

You're sitting on your bunk. Your bunk. The one that doesn't smell like sex, because you haven't had any. The one that smells like clean sheets and the faint, lingering trace of the silk panties Laurie made you wear, which are folded in your drawer like a secret.

Your little guy is resting. Soft. Quiet. He's been quiet all day — through both shows, through the costume changes, through the moments backstage when Laurie whispered in your ear and he twitched but never rose, because she didn't tell him to.

He's being good.

"So," Rachel says, and her voice is bright, curious, slightly slurred from the wine. "Bobby. The guy from deck. You're telling me he just — fucked you. Right there. In the bunk next to your boyfriend."

Meredith giggles. It's not cruel — it's the giggle of a girl sharing a secret with a friend. "Not next to him. On his bunk."

"And your boyfriend just — what — watched?"

"He cleaned up after."

Rachel stares. "He — what?"

"He cleaned up." Meredith takes a sip of wine. Her eyes find yours across the small cabin, and there's something in them — warmth, affection, ownership. The same look Laurie gives you when you've done something right.

"After Bobby finished inside me, my boyfriend here licked me clean. Every drop. And then he made me cum with his tongue while Bobby fell asleep."

Your face burns. Your hands are in your lap, covering the place where your little guy rests — soft, dormant, faithful to the woman who isn't even here tonight.

Rachel looks at you. Then at Meredith. Then at you again.

"Doesn't he mind?" she asks. "I mean — you're dating, right? He's your boyfriend. And you're letting some other guy fuck you in front of him?"

"He doesn't mind," Meredith says. She's not defensive. She's not apologetic. She's just — certain. The way Laurie is certain. "Do you, sweetheart?"

You shake your head. You don't mind. You should mind. You should feel jealous, humiliated, enraged. But you feel none of those things. What you feel is the same thing you've felt since the night Laurie whispered in your ear and your cock rose like a puppet on a string — that hollow, warm, certain acceptance.

This is how it's supposed to be.

"He's not really designed for sex," Meredith says to Rachel. "He's — you know. Pussy-free."

Pussy-free.

The phrase hits you somewhere between your stomach and your chest. You've heard it before — in the whispers of the crew members who've heard about the mentalist's assistant, in the way Maria looked at you backstage with that tilt of her head and that small, knowing smile.

But hearing Meredith say it — out loud, to a stranger, like it's a fact about you the way your height or your eye color is a fact — that's different.

"Pussy-free?" Rachel's eyebrows rise. "Like — he's never —"

"He's a virgin," Meredith says. "And he's going to stay one. His little guy isn't built for it."

She looks at you. Her expression softens. Not pity — never pity. Just — understanding.

"His penis is small," she says. "And he's limp. And he only gets hard when Laurie gives him permission. Which she doesn't. Not for fucking."

Rachel is quiet for a moment. Processing. Then she leans forward.

"Does he want to fuck you?"

The question is aimed at Meredith, but it's about you. You can feel it — the weight of it, the way it presses against your chest.

"He does, don't you, sweetheart? It's natural. But he can't. Tell Rachel why."

"Because — because my penis belongs to Laurie."

"Because your penis belongs to Laurie. And because he's not designed for pussy. He's designed for other things."

Rachel is staring at your lap. At your hands covering the place where your little guy rests. "I don't believe it," she says. "No guy just — stays limp. Not if he's into you."

Meredith smiles. That same knowing smile.

"Go ahead," she says. "Try."

Rachel blinks. "What?"

"Try to wake up his penis. He's right there. Go ahead."

Rachel looks at you. "Can I?"

You nod. You don't know why you nod. You just do.

She moves. Slides off Bobby's bunk, crosses the narrow space, sits beside you on your mattress. She's close — you can smell her perfume, something floral and sharp, and underneath it, something else. Something muskier.

Her hand finds your knee. Slides up your thigh. Her fingers find the waistband of your boxers — the plain cotton ones that still feel wrong, still feel like a cage for a creature that belongs in silk — and she slips inside.

Her fingers find your cock. Soft. Limp. Warm but dormant. She squeezes. Strokes. Her thumb runs across the head.

Nothing.

She strokes again. Longer. Firmer. Her fingers wrap around the shaft and she pulls — gently, then less gently — and your little guy lies there like a sleeping animal that can't be woken.

"Holy shit," Rachel breathes. "He's really — he's not responding at all."

"He's under new management," Meredith says from the other bunk. She's watching with that same warm, patient expression. "Laurie has the key. And Laurie's not here."

Rachel keeps stroking. Her hand is warm. Her grip is good. She's trying — really trying — and you can feel the effort, the attention, the way she's working him like a problem to be solved.

But your little guy doesn't stir. Not a twitch. Not a thickening. Not a single drop of blood rushing to where it's supposed to go.

Rachel sits back. She's quiet for a moment. Then she says something that changes the air in the room.

"God, it must be nice to have your pussy eaten. I haven't been eaten out in days."

Meredith's eyebrows rise. "Days?"

"Mike — the guy I've been seeing on the ship — he just fucks me and falls asleep. He doesn't — he's not into it. He fills me and forgets me." She pauses. "I'm so horny, Meredith. I'm serious. I wish I had someone's mouth on me."

Meredith looks at you. That look again — warm, certain, directive.

"Sweetheart," she says. "Rachel needs some attention."

Your stomach tightens. Your hands are still in your lap, covering your resting cock.

"I —"

"Rachel's been neglected. Her man isn't taking care of her. And you —" Meredith's voice drops into that register that Laurie uses, the one that feels like warm honey being poured into your skull — "you're so good with your mouth."

"I —"

"You cleaned me up last night. You made me cum so hard I almost cried. You know how to do this, sweetheart. You know exactly how to do this."

Rachel is watching. Her cheeks are flushed. Her thighs are pressed together.

"Meredith —"

"What are you afraid of?"

The same question Laurie asked. The same gentle, patient, knowing question.

"Nothing," you whisper. And it's true. You're not afraid. You're just — hollow. Open. Ready to be filled with someone else's purpose.

"Good boy." Meredith stands. She takes Rachel's hand, pulls her up. "Lie down, sweetheart," she says to you. "On your back."

You lie down. The pillow is under your head. The ceiling is above you.

Meredith turns to Rachel. "He's all yours. Sit on his face. He knows what to do."

Rachel hesitates. Just for a moment. Then she unbuttons her shorts, pushes them down, steps out of them. Her panties are white cotton — simple, practical. She slides them off.

Her pussy is right there. Swollen. Pink. A faint glisten of something — wetness, or maybe something else — at the opening.

"Mike came in me earlier tonight," Rachel says. Her voice is quiet. Almost apologetic. "Is that — will that be —"

"That's what he's for," Meredith says. "He's a clean-up boy."

Rachel swings her leg over you. Her knees settle on either side of your head. Her pussy is inches from your mouth — warm, musky, the scent of sex and something saltier underneath.

"Go ahead," Meredith whispers. "Lower yourself. He'll take care of you."

Rachel lowers. Her pussy meets your lips.

The taste hits you first — salt, bitter, thick. Mike's cum. It's warm, viscous, seeping from her as she settles her weight onto your mouth. Your tongue finds the opening and pushes inside.

"Ohhh fuck," Rachel gasps. Her hands find the wall in front of her, steadying herself. "Oh my God — his tongue —"

You lick. You lap. You swallow. The cum slides from her in slow, thick waves — Mike's load, deposited hours ago, still warm inside her, and your tongue works it free, works it out, works it into your mouth and down your throat.

"Mmmmnnn —" Rachel's hips rock forward. Her fingers grip the wall. "He's — oh God — he's so good at that —"

Your tongue finds her clit. Swollen. Sensitive. You close your lips around it and suck — gently, the way Meredith taught you, the way Laurie whispered in your ear — and Rachel's whole body shudders.

"Aaaahhh — right there — right there — don't stop —"

Meredith is sitting on the other bunk, watching. Her hand is between her own legs — slow, lazy circles, her fingers moving beneath the waistband of her shorts. She's enjoying this. Not the sex — the sight of it. The sight of her boyfriend on his back, mouth full of another woman's pussy, cleaning another man's cum, his little guy soft and sleeping in his boxers.

"Good boy," Meredith murmurs. "Good little cleaner."

Rachel's hips grind against your face. Her thighs are trembling. Her breathing is ragged — short, sharp gasps that fill the tiny cabin.

"Nnnngh — I'm gonna — oh fuck — I'm gonna cum —"

You suck harder. Your tongue flicks her clit — fast, rhythmic, relentless. Her whole body tightens above you, and then she breaks.

"Aaaaahhhhhh — oh God — oh God — ohhhhh —"

She grinds against your face. Her pussy pulses against your mouth. Her thighs clamp around your head and you can't breathe, can't move, can do nothing but hold on while the orgasm rips through her.

When it's over, she lifts herself off you. Her legs are shaking. Her face is flushed. She stares down at you — your face wet, your chin glistening, your mouth still slightly open.

"Holy shit," she breathes. "That was — that was the best —"

She looks at Meredith. Her eyes are wide. Bright. Hungry for more — not for herself, but for something else.

"Can I —" She pauses. "Can I invite my friends?"

Meredith smiles. That same warm, maternal, certain smile.

"I think that's a wonderful idea."

They have you lie down again.

Then Rachel takes her panties — the white cotton ones she just took off — slides them up your legs, settles them around your hips. Your little guy rests inside — soft, warm, contained.

"There," Meredith says. "Now they'll feel safe. He's not going to try anything. He's dressed."

She turns off the light. The cabin goes dark. The porthole lets in a sliver of moonlight — enough to see shapes, outlines, the movement of bodies.

The door opens. Closes. Footsteps. Giggles — whispered, stifled, the sound of girls trying to be quiet and failing.

And then the first one is there. You don't see her face — it's too dark. But you feel her. Her knees on either side of your head. The warmth of her thighs. The scent of her — different from Rachel, different from Meredith, something sharper, sweeter.

She lowers herself onto your mouth. You lick. You clean. You make her cum.

She lifts off. Another takes her place. Heavier. Wetter. You lick. You clean. You make her cum.

One after another. The door opens and closes. The floor creaks. The bunk beside you shakes with the weight of girls sitting, watching, waiting their turn.

Your tongue never stops. Your jaw aches. Your face is drenched — cum and wetness and saliva, layer after layer, girl after girl, a collage of tastes and textures that blurs into a single, continuous act of service.

Your little guy never stirs. Not once. He rests in Rachel's panties — soft, warm, contained, faithful to the woman who isn't here.

Some of them talk to him. They've heard — from Rachel, from Meredith, from the whispers that have spread through the crew like a current.

"Hey, little guy," one of them murmurs as she lowers herself onto your face. "You staying soft for us? Good boy."

"He's so cute when he sleeps," another says. "Just resting. Being good."

"He's like a little pet," a third whispers. "You just put him in panties and he does whatever you want."

You lose count. Five. Six. Seven. Each one different — some quick, some slow, some quiet, some loud. Some are clean. Some are full — another man's cum leaking from them as your tongue works, and you lap it up, swallow it, clean them the way you've been trained.

Hours pass. The moonlight shifts. The cabin fills with the scent of sex — thick, heavy, the accumulated musk of a dozen women and the men who fucked them.

And then the last one.

She's different. Older. Her thighs are fuller, her scent deeper, more complex. She settles over you with the confidence of a woman who knows exactly what she wants.

"Not there," she says. Her voice is low, commanding. "Lower."

She shifts. Her pussy moves past your mouth, past your chin, and then — something else. Something tighter. Darker. The tight puckered ring of her asshole, right there, right against your lips.

"Lick," she says.

You hesitate. Just for a moment. Just a heartbeat.

Then your tongue extends. Finds her. Circles the tight ring of muscle. Pushes inside.

"Mmmmm —" She sighs. A deep, satisfied sound. "That's it. Right there. Good boy."

You lick her asshole. Your tongue works the rim, then pushes inside, and she rocks against your face — slow, deliberate, the movement of a woman taking her pleasure where she finds it.

"Who is that?" one of the girls whispers from the other bunk.

"Shh," Meredith says. Her voice is warm. Amused. "That's the Captain's wife."

You lick. You probe. You feel her tighten around your tongue, then relax, then tighten again. She's close — you can feel it in the way her thighs tremble, in the way her breathing quickens.

And then she cums. Not from her pussy — from there. From the place where your tongue is working, from the tight ring of muscle that pulses against your mouth as the orgasm rips through her.

"Aaaahhhhh — oh God —"

She lifts off. Stands. Adjusts her clothes. Leaves without a word.

The door closes. The cabin is quiet.

Meredith turns on the light. It's dim — just the small reading lamp above your bunk — but it's enough to see.

Your face is drenched. Your jaw aches. Your tongue is numb. Your little guy is resting in Rachel's panties — soft, warm, contained, unchanged.

Meredith lies down beside you. Her body curls against yours. Her hand finds your stomach, rests there.

"You were wonderful tonight," she whispers. "So many girls. So much cleaning. You took care of all of them."

She kisses your cheek. Her lips are warm against your skin.

"Good boy," she murmurs. "Good little cleaner. Good little guy."

Her hand slides down. Finds the panties. Rests on the place where your cock sleeps.

"He's so well-behaved," she whispers. "Just resting. Being good. Not causing any trouble."

Your eyes close. The taste of a dozen women lingers on your tongue. The scent of sex fills the cabin. Your little guy is quiet, soft, faithful to the woman who isn't here.

But you don't need her here. You don't need her permission. You don't need anything.

You just need to serve.

Meredith's breathing slows. Her hand still rests on your cock — gentle, protective, the way you'd rest your hand on a sleeping animal.

You sleep.

This is the sixth in a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II | The Mentalist Part III | The Mentalist Part IV | The Mentalist Part V

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part V — The Countdown

The first show ends at eight-fifteen.

You hear the applause from backstage — a thousand and four pairs of hands, a wall of sound that vibrates through the floorboards and into your feet. Laurie takes her bow. You can see her silhouette through the curtain — red sequins, a deep curtsy, one arm extended toward the audience like a queen acknowledging her subjects.

Then the curtain falls, and she's backstage, and you're there with her costume for the next set, and the night is just beginning.

"Zip me down, sweetheart."

You do. The red sequins part. She steps out of the dress and stands in her underwear — black plunge bra, seamless thong — and you try not to stare, but your eyes drift anyway, and she catches you, and she smiles.

"You can look," she says. "Looking is fine. He's being good, isn't he?"

You glance down at your crotch. Your little guy is resting. Soft. Quiet. Obedient. The silk panties she dressed you in earlier hold him snug — a warm, gentle embrace that keeps him contained, dormant, hers.

"He's being very good," you say.

"I know. I can tell." She steps into the next dress — a silver sheath, floor-length, backless. You hold it open for her.

She slides in. You zip her up. Your fingers brush her bare back and your skin prickles, but nothing stirs below. Nothing moves. He sleeps.

"Good boy. Now — I need the earrings from the blue case. The chandelier ones."

You find them. You hold them out. She takes them, puts them on, turns to the mirror.

"You're quiet tonight," she says, watching your reflection.

"I'm fine."

"You're not fine. You're chewing your lip. You've been chewing it since the show started." She meets your eyes in the mirror. "What is it?"

You swallow. Your throat is dry. You've been rehearsing this moment for hours — since this morning, since last night, since Meredith fell asleep curled against you with Bobby's cum still drying on your chin.

"Laurie —"

"Say it, sweetheart."

"Can I —" You stop. Start again. "Can I use him? Tonight? I want to — with Meredith —"

She turns from the mirror. Her expression is calm, curious. Not surprised. Laurie is never surprised.

"You want to fuck Meredith."

The word lands like a slap. You flinch. But she said it plainly, without cruelty, the way someone might say you want a glass of water.

"I — yes. I thought — if you gave permission —"

"Why?"

"Why?"

"Why do you want to fuck Meredith?"

"Because I — because she's —" You search for the right words. "Because I want to feel what it's like. To be inside her. To —"

"To be a man?"

Your face burns. "I didn't say that."

"You didn't have to." She turns back to the mirror, adjusts an earring.

"You want to feel what Bobby feels. You want to know what it's like to push your cock into a woman and have her want it. To be big enough, hard enough, good enough to make her moan."

She says it without judgment. Without mockery. Just — fact. The way she reads everyone.

"Yes," you whisper.

"Of course you do. That's very natural, sweetheart." She turns to face you. "But I think we should ask Meredith what she wants. Don't you?"

Before you can answer, Laurie is at the dressing room door. She leans out, speaks to someone in the corridor. You hear footsteps. The door opens.

Meredith.

She's still in her service uniform — white polo, khaki shorts. Her blonde ponytail is slightly disheveled, like she's been moving fast. She sees you and her face lights up with that same private smile from the crew bar.

"You asked for me, Madam Lorien?"

"I did. Come in, please." Laurie gestures to the folding chair beside the makeup table. "Sit."

Meredith sits. Her eyes flick to you — standing in your corset and tuxedo jacket, your silk panties holding your soft, sleeping cock — and she smiles.

"Our assistant has a request," Laurie says. "He'd like to use his penis tonight. With you."

Meredith looks at you. Then at Laurie. Then back at you.

"With me?"

"He wants to fuck you. He wants to know what it feels like to be inside a woman's pussy."

Meredith's expression shifts — not cruel, not dismissive, just — honest. She tilts her head the way she did backstage, the way she did in the crew bar, the way girls do when they're deciding how to let a boy down.

"Oh," she says. Then, softly: "That's really sweet."

She looks at Laurie. "I mean — Bobby fucked me pretty good last night. Like, really good. I'm still a little sore, honestly."

She glances at your crotch. The silk. The flat, dormant shape beneath it.

"And I've seen his little guy when he's hard. When you made him dance backstage." She pauses. "It's — you know. It's not anything special."

The words stab you in the throat. Each one sinks. Each one settles.

Not anything special.

You should feel angry. Humiliated. Something. But your little guy doesn't stir. Your cock doesn't rise to its own defense. He just rests — soft, quiet, faithful to the woman who owns him.

"It seems Meredith doesn't want to ride the ride," Laurie says. Her voice is gentle. Almost amused. "What do you think the issue is, sweetheart?"

You can't answer. Your face is burning. Your mouth is dry.

"I think the issue," Laurie continues, "is that you want something you can't have. And instead of accepting that, you're looking for a way around it."

She steps closer. Her hand finds your cheek. Cool palm against burning skin.

"But here's what I want you to understand, sweetheart. You don't need to fuck Meredith to cum."

You blink. "I — what?"

"You heard me." She steps back. Sits on the edge of the vanity table. Crosses her legs. The silver dress catches the light.

"You want to cum. That's what this is about. Not connection, not intimacy — you want to feel the release. The explosion. The moment when your little guy spits and your brain goes white and everything is, for just a second, okay."

She's right. She's always right.

"From now on," she says, "whenever you want to cum, you don't need a woman's pussy. You don't need to push into her, or make a mess on her, or use her as a receptacle for your excitement."

She pauses. Lets the words settle.

"From now you'll be your own cum receptacle. And I'll give you a countdown to make it easier."

You stare at her.

"Here's how it works, sweetheart. Whenever you feel too aroused — too overwhelmed — too desperate — you ask the girl you're with to supervise. You get into position. You point your little guy at your face. And she counts you down from ten."

She smiles as you process what she is describing.

"You hear her voice. You focus on your cock. And when she reaches one, you cum. But only if you're in position, only if your little guy is pointing right at your face."

The silence stretches. Meredith is watching with wide eyes. You can feel her attention like heat.

"That's —" you start. "That's —"

"Or," Laurie says, holding up a finger, "you can wait. You can wait until I decide you're ready for some time with your hand. I'll tell you when. I'll tell you how. I'll tell you where. But you'll wait until then."

She lets the choice hang in the air.

"Or you can cum tonight. Right now. Into your own mouth. With Meredith watching and counting you down."

Your heart is hammering. Your face is on fire. Your little guy is still soft — still resting — still hers — but something in your stomach is tightening, coiling, a spring being wound.

"Meredith," Laurie says. "Would you like to see a demonstration?"

Meredith's face splits into a grin. She bounces slightly in her chair. "Oh my God. Yes. Yes, please."

Laurie turns to you. Her eyes are warm. Patient. Certain.

"Sweetheart. Would you like to show Meredith what your little guy can do?"

You should say no. You should walk out. You should find Bobby, find your bunk, find some version of yourself that existed before the velvet table and the candle and the sealed envelope.

Instead, you nod.

"Good boy." Laurie's voice is a warm current carrying you forward. "Take off the jacket. Take off the corset. Take off the panties. I want Meredith to see all of you."

You undress. The jacket first — you drape it over the chair.

Then the corset — Laurie unlaces it for you, her fingers working the knots with practiced ease, and your ribs expand as the pressure releases.

Then the panties — you slide them down, step out of them, and your little guy hangs free.

Soft. Small. Resting.

Meredith watches from her chair. She's leaning forward, elbows on her knees, chin in her hands. Her expression is rapt — delighted and curious, the way someone watches a magic trick for the first time.

"Now," Laurie says. "On the floor. On your back."

You lower yourself to the carpet. It's thin, industrial, the kind that lines backstage corridors in every theatre in the world. It scratches against your shoulder blades.

"Good. Now tip your legs back. Over your head. I want your hips up, your shoulders on the ground, and your little guy pointing right at your face."

You hesitate. Your body resists — not because you don't want to, but because some last shred of dignity is screaming that this position, this vulnerability, this exposure is too much. That you can't. That you shouldn't.

But your legs are already moving. Your hips tilt back. Your feet lift. Your legs swing over your head, and your weight settles onto your shoulders and the back of your neck, and your cock — soft, limp, dangling — hangs directly above your face.

You can see him. From below. He's small from this angle — smaller than you've ever seen him. A soft, pink, unremarkable thing, pointing straight down at your mouth.

"Perfect," Laurie says. She crouches beside you. Her hand rests on your hip, steadying you. "Now look at him. Keep your eyes on your little guy. Don't look away. Don't close your eyes. I want you to focus."

You look. Your cock fills your field of vision — soft, resting, the tip slightly darker than the shaft, a faint glisten of precum that you didn't know was there.

"The more you focus on him," Laurie says, "the more aroused you'll become. The more you watch him, the more he'll respond. You don't need to touch him. You don't need to do anything except look. And listen."

She looks at Meredith. "Count him down, please. From ten."

Meredith straightens in her chair. She clears her throat. Her voice is bright, eager, slightly breathless.

"Ten."

Your cock twitches. A tiny movement — a flutter, like a heartbeat visible on the surface.

"Nine."

He stirs. Not fully. Just a thickening, a heaviness, as if blood is beginning to gather.

"Eight."

You watch him. You can't look away. Laurie told you to focus, and you're focusing, and the more you stare at your own cock — small, dangling, pointing at your mouth — the more something tightens in your gut.

"Seven."

He's growing. Slowly. Surely. Filling, thickening, lengthening. The shaft firms. The tip darkens. He rises from his resting state like an animal lifting its head.

"Oh my God," Meredith breathes. "He's getting hard. Without anyone touching him."

"Six."

Your cock is half-erect now. Angling down toward your face. You can see every vein, every ridge, the smooth crown of the head as it fills and flushes. He's pointing directly at your mouth.

"Five."

He's fully hard. Jutting straight down — straight at your lips. The tip is dark, swollen, a bead of precum forming at the slit. It stretches. Grows. Drips.

"Nnnngh —" you whimper. You can't help it. The sight of your own cock, hard and leaking, aimed at your face, is doing something to you that no porn, no fantasy, no late-night session in a dark room has ever done.

"Four."

A drop of precum stretches, breaks, falls. It lands on your lower lip. Warm. Salt. You taste it without meaning to.

"Three."

Your cock throbs. Twitches. The shaft is rigid, the head swollen, and he's so close to your mouth that you can feel the heat radiating from him — your own heat, your own arousal, reflected back at you.

"Two."

Your whole body is trembling. Your shoulders ache from holding the position. Your legs are shaking. But your eyes never leave your cock. You're locked on him — on his small, hard, desperate form, on the drop of precum sliding down the shaft toward your face.

"One," Meredith says. Her voice drops. Softens. She understands. "Cum."

Your cock erupts.

The first rope hits your chin — thick, white, hot. The second lands across your lips, your nose, your cheek. The third — the biggest — shoots directly into your open mouth, coating your tongue, hitting the back of your throat.

"Hhhnnngh — oh God — oh fuck —"

You cum and cum and cum. Hands free. No touch. Just the sound of a woman's voice and the sight of your own little guy, pointed at your face, doing exactly what he was told.

Your mouth fills. Warm, bitter, salt. You swallow — instinct, not choice — and another spurt replaces what you swallowed, and you swallow again, and again, your throat working, your lips coated, your face splattered.

"Mmmmnnngh —" The sound that comes from you is barely human. A whimper. A sob. A prayer.

Your cock pulses three more times — weaker, thinner, the last contractions of an orgasm that has emptied you completely. The final drops fall onto your chin, your neck, the carpet beneath your head.

Then he stops. Softens. Shrinks. Returns to rest.

Your face is covered. Your mouth is full. Your own cum is pooled on your tongue, smeared across your cheeks, dripping from your chin onto the floor.

Meredith claps.

She actually claps — her hands coming together, bright and sharp, three quick bursts of applause that echo in the small dressing room.

"That was amazing!" She's bouncing in her chair. "Oh my God, he came so much! And it went right in his mouth! Without anyone touching him! How did you — how is that —"

"The mind is a powerful thing," Laurie says. She's smiling. Warm. Maternal. Pleased. "Especially a mind that's been given to someone else to manage."

She helps you lower your legs. You unfold — stiff, shaky — and lie flat on your back on the carpet, staring at the ceiling. Your face is wet. Your mouth is coated. Your little guy is soft, resting, spent.

"Get up, sweetheart. Clean up. There's a sink in the corner."

You stand on wobbly legs. You walk to the sink. You wash your face — the cum slides off under warm water, swirling down the drain. You rinse your mouth. Spit. Rinse again.

You look at yourself in the mirror. Your face is flushed. Your eyes are glassy. Your lips are still faintly smeared.

Behind you, Meredith is talking to Laurie — rapid, excited, asking questions about how it works, whether all men can do it, whether she can try it herself sometime.

Laurie catches your eye in the mirror. She smiles.

"Good boy," she says. "Now. Both of you — go. Enjoy the night. You have a date, don't you?"

Meredith takes your hand. Her fingers are warm. She squeezes.

"Come on," she says. "Let's get a drink."

You dress. You follow her out. The corridor is empty. The next show doesn't start for forty minutes.

As you walk, Meredith leans into you. Her shoulder presses against your arm. Her voice is low, conspiratorial, warm.

"That was the hottest thing I've ever seen," she whispers. "Your little guy is so well-trained."

You don't answer. You can't. Your mouth still tastes like cum. Your face still feels warm. Your little guy is quiet, resting, faithful.

But somewhere deep inside you — in the place where Laurie planted her whisper, where the string is pulled, where the puppet dances — something stirs. Not your cock. Something else.

Something that knows this is just the beginning.

This is the fifth in a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II | The Mentalist Part III | The Mentalist Part IV

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part IV — The Cleaner

The dress rehearsal goes off without a hitch.

You stand where Laurie tells you to stand. You hand her what Laurie tells you to hand her. You speak when Laurie tells you to speak — three lines, total, all of them simple, all of them met with laughter from the off-duty crew members who've been invited to watch.

The show is exactly what you'd expect from a woman who's been doing this for years.

Volunteers from the sparse audience. Laurie reads them like books — their secrets, their fears, the things they've never told anyone.

A steward who's been stealing from the pantry. A bartender who's in love with the Captain's wife. A young woman from housekeeping who's been faking a British accent since she was hired.

Each revelation lands like a thunderclap. Each volunteer returns to their seat looking shaken, exposed, oddly grateful.

Laurie is magnificent.

And you stand behind her in your black silk panties and your corset and your cropped tuxedo jacket, and your little guy stays soft, stays resting, stays exactly where she told him to stay, and you feel something that might be pride, or might be something else entirely.

When it's over, Laurie dismisses you with a wave of her hand.

"Go. Eat. Find your friend. Be back by ten tomorrow."

You change back into your uniform in the backstage bathroom. Your hands are steady.

Your cock is soft, quiet, surrendered. You tuck him into your boxers — the plain cotton ones that now feel wrong, shapeless, like putting a rescued animal back into a cage — and you head out into the ship.

The crew bar is on Deck 4, tucked between the laundry room and a storage corridor. It's not much — a few booths, a small bar, a TV mounted on the wall playing a soccer game no one's watching.

The lighting is dim, the drinks are free, and the air smells like cheap beer and cheaper cologne.

You find Bobby in the third booth, and he's not alone.

Two girls. One you don't recognize — compact, with a wide mouth and a laugh that carries across the room.

The other is Meredith. Blonde ponytail. Ship's service uniform. The girl who walked in on you naked and erect backstage, who watched Laurie make your cock dance like a puppet on a string.

She sees you before you see her.

Her expression shifts — a flicker of recognition, then something else. Something private. She leans toward the other girl, cups her hand over her mouth, and whispers.

The other girl — you'll learn her name is Sandra — looks at you. Her eyes drop to your waist. Then lower. She giggles. It's not cruel — it's delighted, the way you'd laugh at a puppy doing something unexpected.

"Hey, dumbass!" Bobby waves you over. "Where the hell have you been? I saved you a seat. This is Sandra. Sandra, this is my idiot friend who abandoned me for a mind reader."

"Hi," you say.

"Hi," Sandra says, still smiling. She glances at Meredith. They share a look that you can't decode.

Meredith shifts to make room for you. Her thigh presses against yours when you sit down. She's warm. She smells like coconut lotion and alcohol underneath — gin, maybe, or vodka.

"So," Meredith says. "How are you enjoying being Madam Lorien's new assistant?"

"It's interesting."

"I bet."

"It's a job."

"It's definitely a job." She takes a sip of her drink. Her eyes are bright.

"She's amazing, by the way. I saw her last season. She made a guy in the audience admit he'd been faking a limp for three years. Just looked at him and knew."

"She's good at what she does," you say.

Sandra leans forward. "Meredith says you put on quite a performance."

Bobby puts his arm around Sandra. "He works for a magician. Big deal. I work on the lido deck. I get free piña coladas and Swedish stewardesses."

"Stewardesses aren't Swedish anymore, babe," Sandra says. "That's, like, a 1970s thing."

"Let me have my fantasy."

The night progresses. Bobby is in his element — loud, confident, his arm around Sandra, his laugh filling the bar. He's good at this. He's always been good at this.

Bobby has never had trouble with girls. Bobby has never stood in a line of pretty women and felt like a fraud. Bobby has never given control of his penis to a mentalist in a burgundy robe.

You drink. Meredith drinks. The booth gets smaller as the night gets later, and Meredith's thigh stays pressed against yours, and her hand finds your knee under the table, and she leans in when she talks, and her breath is warm against your ear.

She's flirting with you. It feels impossible. It feels like something that happens to other people — to Bobby, to men who know what they're doing, to men whose cocks haven't been claimed by a woman who isn't even here.

But Meredith is here. And she's touching your knee. And she's smiling at you like she knows something you don't.

"Your cabin or ours?" Bobby asks, standing up, swaying slightly.

"Yours," Sandra says, pulling him toward the door.

Meredith takes your hand. "Come on."

The cabin is small — two bunks, a porthole, a bathroom the size of a closet. Bobby and Sandra fall onto his bunk immediately, kissing, pulling at clothes, laughing.

Meredith pushes you gently onto your bunk. She sits beside you. Her hand finds your chest, slides down, finds the button of your trousers.

She kisses you. Her lips are soft, her tongue is warm, and for a moment — just a moment — you feel like a normal man in a normal situation with a normal girl who wants normal things.

Her hand slips inside your trousers. Her fingers find your cock through your boxers.

She pauses.

She squeezes.

Nothing.

She pulls back. Looks at you. Looks down at your crotch, where her hand is still resting on a cock that is completely, utterly, embarrassingly soft.

"Um," she says.

"I —" Your face is on fire. "I'm sorry, I —"

"Shh." She's gentle about it. Not angry. Not disappointed. Just — curious. "Is something wrong?"

"No. I don't — I don't know. I —"

And then you do know. You know exactly what's wrong.

Your little guy is under new management. He belongs to Laurie. He won't get hard unless she says so. You gave her control. You said the words. I give you control of my penis.

And he listened. He's listening now — soft, limp, resting in Meredith's hand like a sleeping animal that's been told to stay.

"I can't," you whisper. "Not without —"

"Without what?"

"Permission."

Meredith blinks. Then her expression shifts — not confusion, but understanding.

The whisper from backstage. The puppet on a string. Laurie making your cock rise and fall and rise again while two girls watched and laughed.

"Oh," she says. "Oh, wow. She really did a number on you."

From Bobby's bunk, a gasp. You both turn.

Sandra is on her back, her shorts around her ankles, and Bobby is between her legs.

His cock is out — hard, thick, bigger than yours, much bigger than yours — and he's pushing into her pussy with the confidence of a man who's never had to ask permission for anything in his life.

"Ohhh fuck yeah," Bobby groans as he slides in. "Oh baby, you're so wet —"

"Ffffuck — Bobby —" Sandra's hands grip his back. Her legs wrap around his hips. "Nnnngh — yes, right there, right there —"

Bobby thrusts. Deep. Hard. The bunk creaks with each stroke. His ass flexes as he drives into her. Sandra's moans fill the tiny cabin — raw, urgent, the sound of a woman being fucked exactly the way she needs.

Meredith watches. Her hand is still on your cock. Still soft. Still resting.

She looks at you. You look at her.

"He can't get it up," Meredith says, loud enough for Bobby to hear. "Not without his boss's permission."

Bobby turns his head mid-thrust. "What?"

"His boss. The mentalist. She's got some kind of — I don't know — hold on him. She made his dick do tricks backstage. I saw it. She'd whisper and it would go up and down like a — like a yo-yo."

Bobby laughs. The sound is loud, incredulous. "Dude. Are you serious?"

You can't answer. You're watching him fuck Sandra.

His cock is glistening with her wetness, sliding in and out of her pussy, thick and hard and relentless.

Each thrust into her pussy pushes a sound from Sandra's throat — a gasp, a moan, a whimper that rises in pitch and intensity.

"Mmmmnnn — Bobby — Bobby — I'm gonna — oh God —"

She cums. Her whole body arches. Her fingers dig into Bobby's shoulders.

Her mouth opens in a silent scream that becomes a long, shuddering moan — "Aaaahhhhnnn —" — and Bobby keeps fucking her through it, grinning, proud, a man in his element.

When Sandra finally goes limp, Bobby pulls out. His cock is still hard, slick, bobbing in the air. He looks at Meredith.

"You need some of this?"

Meredith looks at you. Her expression is soft. Apologetic. But her eyes are hungry.

"Is it ok?" she asks.

You should say no. You should feel jealous, humiliated, enraged. Your friend just fucked a girl in front of you while your cock sat there like a deflated balloon, and now he's offering to fuck the girl who was just touching you, and she's asking your permission.

But you feel none of those things. What you feel is a strange, hollow acceptance. A recognition that this is how it's supposed to be. Bobby fucks. You watch. Your little guy rests. Laurie holds the string.

You nod.

"Are you sure?" Meredith asks.

"Yes," you whisper.

She stands. She strips — shorts first, then panties, then her polo. Her body is lean, pale, small-breasted.

She climbs onto Bobby's bunk, and Bobby climbs on top of her, and his cock — that big, hard, functional cock — stretches her pussy as he pushes into her without hesitation.

"Ohhh fuck," Meredith moans. "Oh, God, that's — nnnngh — that's good —"

Bobby fucks her the same way he fucked Sandra — hard, confident, relentless. The bunk shakes. The sounds are wet, primal, the sounds of a man doing what men do.

You watch. Your cock is soft. Your arousal is a furnace, burning through your chest, your stomach, your limbs — everywhere except where it's supposed to be.

Your little guy lies dormant in your boxers, obedient, faithful to the woman who owns him.

But Bobby doesn't last long the second time. His thrusts quicken. His face contorts.

"Fuck — fuck — I'm gonna —"

"Inside," Meredith gasps. "Inside, do it inside — fill my pussy —"

Bobby groans — a long, animal sound — and buries himself deep. His hips jerk.

His ass clenches. He's cumming. You can see it — the pulsing, the way his cock twitches inside her, the way his whole body goes rigid and then slack. He is shooting his load deep into your girl's pussy.

"Aaaahhh — fuck — fuck —"

He collapses on top of her. Breathing hard. Grinning.

"Sorry," he says after a moment. "I couldn't — I couldn't hold it."

Sandra laughs. "Welcome to my world, babe."

Bobby rolls off Meredith. His cock slides out, softening, slick with cum and her wetness. He pulls Sandra into his arms and they curl together on his bunk, naked, sated, unbothered.

"Night, bro," Bobby mumbles. "Better luck next time."

Within minutes, they're asleep.

Meredith is looking at you. Her legs are parted. Bobby's cum is leaking from her pussy — thick, white, sliding down her thigh. She hasn't cum. Her face is flushed, frustrated, hungry.

"Come here," she says.

You move. You don't decide to move. You just do.

She pats your bunk beside her. "Lie down. On your back."

You do. You can smell him on her — sweat, sex, cum.

Meredith swings her leg over you. She's facing your feet — reverse cowgirl, her pussy inches from your face, her hands resting on your stomach.

She pushes your pants and boxers down. Looks at your crotch. Your cock is still soft. Still resting. Still Laurie's.

"Hey, little guy," she says. Her voice is gentle. Soothing. She's talking to your cock the way Laurie did — directly, like it's a separate creature, a pet, a thing with its own feelings.

"It's ok. You don't have to wake up. You just rest." Her fingers brush him. Soft. Feather-light. He doesn't stir.

"Good boy," she murmurs. "Just rest. I don't need you right now."

She lowers herself. Her pussy is right there — swollen, pink, dripping with Bobby's cum.

"Clean me up," she says.

Her pussy descends onto your mouth.

The taste hits you first — salt, bitter, thick. Bobby's cum. It's warm, viscous, sliding across your tongue as your lips press against her.

You can feel it leaking from her, seeping into your mouth, and you lick — because she told you to, because your tongue is the only part of you that still works, because this is what you're for.

"Mmmmm," Meredith sighs. "That's it. Lick it all up. Get his cum out of me."

Your tongue moves through the folds of her pussy. You find the opening — slick, swollen, hot — and you push inside.

Cum floods your mouth. You swallow. Lick more. Swallow more. The taste is overwhelming — Bobby's cum, her wetness, the combination of them — and your cock stays soft, stays resting, stays faithful to the woman who isn't here.

"Good boy," Meredith whispers. Her hips rock gently against your face. "Good little cleaner."

She reaches down. Her fingers find your cock again. Soft. Limp. She doesn't try to wake him. She just holds him — gently, the way you'd hold a sleeping hamster.

"Your little guy is so well-behaved," she says. "She trained you good."

Your tongue finds her clit. She gasps.

"Ohhh — right there — keep doing that —"

You suck. Gently. Your lips close around that small, swollen bud, and you flick it with your tongue, and Meredith's thighs tighten around your head.

"Mmmmnnn — fuck — yes — just like that — don't stop —"

Her hips grind against your face. Your nose is buried in her. Your mouth is full of her — her taste, her wetness, the last traces of Bobby's cum that you've licked and swallowed and cleaned.

Her fingers stroke your soft cock absently, rhythmically, like she's petting a cat.

"Your little guy is so cute when he sleeps," she murmurs. "Just resting. Being good. Not causing any trouble."

She's getting close. Her thighs are trembling. Her breathing is ragged.

"Nnnngh — keep going — keep — I'm almost —"

You feel it building in her — the tension, the heat, the gathering storm. Your tongue works her clit. Your lips hold on. Her whole body tightens.

And then she cums.

"Aaaahhhhhh — oh God — ohhhhh —"

She grinds against your face. Her pussy pulses against your mouth. Her thighs clamp around your head and you can't breathe, can't move, can do nothing but hold on while the orgasm rips through her — wave after wave, her body jerking, her fingers gripping your soft cock like a handle.

When it's over, she collapses forward. Her forehead rests on your stomach. Her breath comes in hot gasps against your skin.

Your face is drenched — her cum, Bobby's cum, your saliva, all of it smeared across your cheeks, your chin, your nose.

She rolls off you. Finds the blanket. Pulls it over both of you.

Her body curls against yours. Her hand rests on your stomach. Her breath slows.

"Good boy," she whispers, half asleep. "Good little guy."

And in the dark, in the warmth of her body and the wetness on your face and the soft, sleeping cock in your boxers, you feel it again — that thing Laurie planted in you this morning. That certainty. That surrender.

He belongs to her now.

You close your eyes.

You sleep.

This is the fourth in a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II | The Mentalist Part III

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part III — The Puppet

The backstage corridor of the ship's theatre smells like dust and velvet and something electrical — the particular ozone tang of stage lights warming up.

You find Laurie behind the main curtain, in a dressing area that's more alcove than room.

Racks of costumes along one wall. Mirror with bulbs along another. A folding table covered in makeup and brushes and small jars.

Laurie is standing in front of the mirror in a pink bra and matching panties.

Pink — not the deep, sophisticated pink of something chosen for effect, but a soft, warm, cotton-candy pink that makes her look younger, softer, like she's getting ready for bed rather than for a stage.

She sees you in the mirror and smiles.

"Perfect timing, sweetheart."

You're still shaky from this morning. From what happened. From what you did. From what you said. I give you control of my penis. The words echo in your head like a bell that won't stop ringing.

She turns to face you. The pink bra is elegant — lace, padding, soft cups that hold her breasts like two gentle hands. The panties match. Low-cut. The fabric stretches across her hips and narrows between her thighs.

She catches you looking.

"Stop staring, sweetheart. You'll have plenty of time for that. Right now I need you focused."

She reaches behind her on the costume rack and pulls something off a hanger. Holds it out to you.

Black silk. Folded neatly. Small.

You take it. It unfolds in your hands.

Panties. Black silk panties. Men's wouldn't fit like this — wouldn't be cut like this, wouldn't be this soft, this smooth, this small.

"Your uniform," she says.

You look up. She's already pulling something else from the rack — a black corset, boned, with laces at the back. She drapes it over a chair.

Then reaches for a tuxedo jacket, cropped, fitted, clearly designed to be worn open over something — or over nothing.

"Wait," you say. "This is — you want me to wear —"

"Panties. A corset. And the jacket. Yes."

"On stage."

"On stage."

"In front of —"

"A thousand people, yes. The theatre seats one thousand and four, to be precise. Every seat sold."

Your stomach drops. Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You look down at the panties in your hands. The silk is cool and impossibly smooth against your fingers.

"Laurie — I can't —"

"You can."

"People will see —"

"People will see a man in a costume. It happens every night, on every stage, in every theatre in the world."

"This isn't a costume, this is —"

"It is your costume." She steps closer. Her voice drops. "Sweetheart, do you remember what you agreed to?"

You do. You can't forget.

I'll do whatever you say. No questions. No hesitation.

"I — yes, but I didn't —"

"You didn't think I'd put you in panties?" She tilts her head. "What did you think I'd put you in? A tuxedo? A bow tie? You're my assistant, sweetheart. Every assistant I've ever had has worn the same uniform. Girls, all of them. And they wore panties and a corset because that's what the costume is."

"But I'm not a —"

"You're not a girl. I know. Panties don't make you a girl."

She takes the silk from your hands, holds it up, runs her thumb along the waistband. "Panties are just underwear. But they're the right underwear for your little guy."

Your face burns.

"Something small needs to be properly contained," she says, matter-of-factly, like she's explaining why you'd choose a particular size of box for a particular object.

"Briefs are too loose. Boxers are a disaster. But a nice pair of silk panties — they hold everything in place. They keep him snug. Comfortable. Contained."

She holds them out to you again.

"Put them on."

You don't move. Your hands won't reach for them. Your brain is running two programs simultaneously — one screaming don't and one whispering you already gave him to her, you already said yes, you already—

"Sweetheart." Her voice is gentle. Patient. "What are you afraid of?"

"I'll get —" You swallow. "I'll get hard. On stage. In front of everyone."

She smiles. Not surprised. Not amused. Just — knowing.

"Will you?"

"Yes. Obviously. If I'm up there in — in those — and you're doing your act and people are looking and I —"

"Sweetheart." She takes a step closer. Her hand finds your cheek. Cool palm against your burning skin. "Do you remember what I told you this morning?"

"You said — you said my penis is under new management."

"That's right. I said he belongs to me now. He won't get hard unless I say so. He won't cum unless I give the word."

"I thought you were being —" You search for the word. "Metaphorical."

"I'm a mentalist, sweetheart. I'm never metaphorical."

She steps back.

"Strip."

"What?"

"Take off your clothes. All of them. I'm going to show you something."

Your hands are shaking. You look at the door behind you. The corridor. The exit.

But your fingers are already at your buttons.

You undress. Shirt first. Then trousers. Then your boxers — the plain cotton ones you've worn your whole life, the ones that suddenly look absurd, childish, inadequate.

You step out of them and stand there, naked, in the backstage corridor of a theatre that seats a thousand and four people.

Laurie looks at you. Not at your face. Lower.

Your cock is soft. Limp. Hanging between your legs like something forgotten.

"Good," she says. "He's resting. That's good. Now stand still."

You stand still.

She circles you. Once. Twice. Her fingers trail across your shoulder, down your arm, along your hip. Feather-light. Clinical. Like she's inspecting a mannequin.

"A man's penis," she says, "is like a little puppet on a string."

She stops in front of you. Looks down at your cock.

"Most men think they control the string. They think they decide when he rises, when he rests, when he performs. But they don't. He does. Or rather — the woman who knows how does."

She steps closer. Her lips are near your ear. So close you can feel her breath.

"Shall I show you?"

You nod. You can't speak.

She leans in. Her mouth touches your ear. And she whispers — something.

You can't make out the words. They're too soft, too low, more vibration than sound.

But something travels through you — from your ear down your spine, through your stomach, into your groin.

And your cock twitches.

Then stirs.

Then rises.

Not slowly, not gradually, but like something has been called. Like a dog hearing a whistle. He lifts, thickens, fills with blood, and stands up — hard, straight, pointing at her.

"Ohh —" you gasp. "How did you —"

"Shh." She steps back. Looks at him. Your cock is fully erect, jutting from your body, the tip dark and swollen.

"I never get tired of watching a man's little guy dance for me," she says. Her voice is warm. Delighted. Like she's watching a puppy do a trick.

She leans in again. Whispers. Something different — longer, softer, a stream of syllables that don't quite form words.

Your cock throbs. Twitches. A bead of precum forms at the tip, stretches, falls.

"Nnnngh —" you whimper. Your hips buck forward involuntarily.

"See?" She's smiling. "He's very responsive. Very well-trained. Aren't you, little guy?"

She's talking to your cock. Directly. Like it's a separate creature. Like you're the appendix.

"He's twitching and leaking for me. So eager. So obedient." She runs a fingernail — just a fingernail — along the underside of your shaft. Your whole body shudders.

"Hhhnnn — please —"

"Please what?"

"Please — I don't know — please —"

She whispers again. Your cock pulses. Another bead of precum. Your knees are trembling.

And then the door opens.

Two girls. Young. Wearing the ship's service uniform — white polos, khaki shorts.

One is dark-haired, compact, curvy. The other is taller, thinner, with a blonde ponytail. They're carrying a tray with a bottle of sparkling water, a plate of fruit, some cheese.

They stop.

They see you.

You're standing there. Naked. Erect. Leaking. In front of two strangers.

"Maria, Meredith," Laurie says, as if nothing is happening. "Right on time. Just set it down on the table."

The dark-haired one — Maria — stares at your cock. Her mouth opens slightly.

"Oh my God," the blonde one — Meredith — says. Then, louder: "Oh my God."

"I — I can explain —" you start, but there's nothing to explain. You're naked with a hard-on in a backstage corridor. There's no version of this that makes sense.

"Don't be scared, sweetheart." Laurie's hand is on your back. Steadying. "Maria, Meredith — come here. I want to show you something."

They approach. Slowly. Like they're being pulled by a current.

"Is he —" Maria starts.

"Hard? Yes. But watch this."

Laurie leans into your ear. Whispers.

Your cock deflates. Not slowly — like a balloon. He drops, softens, shrinks, hangs limp between your legs in seconds.

"Oh my fuck," Meredith says. "It's so small. How did you —"

"I told you. A puppet on a string." Laurie looks at the two girls. "Want to see it again?"

They nod. Simultaneously. Like they've forgotten how to speak.

Laurie leans in. Her lips brush your ear. The whisper is longer this time — a phrase, a rhythm, something that feels like warm honey being poured into your skull.

Your cock responds. Rising. Filling. Standing up. Hard as iron.

"Hhnnngh —" you groan. You can't help it. The shame of it — naked, erect, two girls watching — is making him harder, not softer, and Laurie knows it.

"He's dancing for us," Laurie says to the girls. "Look at him twitch."

"He's so —" Maria tilts her head. "He's kind of cute."

"He is cute. He's my cute little assistant." Laurie kisses your cheek. "Aren't you, sweetheart?"

"Mmmngh — yes —"

"And look — he's leaking." Meredith points. "Is that —"

"Precum. That means he's very excited. Very desperate." Laurie wraps her hand around your cock — just for a moment, just a squeeze — and your hips buck.

"Aaahhh —"

"Shh, shh. Easy, little guy." She's talking to your cock again. "Easy. Down."

She whispers. And he goes down. Soft. Limp. Resting.

"Up." Whisper. Hard. Throbbing.

"Down." Whisper. Soft. Surrendered.

"Up." Whisper. Hard. Leaking.

The girls are laughing. Not cruelly — with delight. Like they're watching a magic trick. Which, in a way, they are.

"That's amazing," Maria says. "Can you do that to any guy?"

"Any man who gives me permission," Laurie says. She looks at you. "And this one gave me complete permission. Didn't you, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you whisper.

"Say it for our guests."

"I gave her control of my penis."

Meredith covers her mouth. Maria's eyes are wide.

"Good boy." Laurie pats your cheek. "Now — I think it's time to get dressed. All of us."

She hands you the black silk panties. You step into them. The fabric slides up your legs, settles against your skin, holds your cock — soft, resting — in a warm, snug embrace.

Then the corset. She wraps it around your torso, reaches behind you, pulls the laces. It tightens. Your ribs compress. Your posture straightens.

You feel held — contained — like you've been put into a shape that isn't yours but fits you anyway.

"Turn around," Laurie says.

You do. The two girls are watching.

"Do a little walk for us, sweetheart. Over to the mirror and back."

You walk. The silk shifts against your cock with each step. The corset holds you rigid. You feel exposed. Ridiculous. And something else — something you don't want to name.

"Very nice," Laurie says. "The jacket."

You put it on. The tuxedo jacket, cropped, open. It frames the corset. Makes it look almost — almost — intentional. Like fashion. Like a costume.

"He looks good," Maria says.

"He looks adorable," Laurie corrects. She turns to the girls. "Thank you for the delivery, ladies. I'll see you at the show."

They gather themselves. Meredith is still flushed. Maria keeps glancing at your crotch — the silk holding your cock, the faint outline visible.

They leave. The door closes.

Laurie looks at you. "Well. That was fun."

You can't speak. You're standing in panties and a corset and a tuxedo jacket, your cock soft and caged in silk, your face burning, your mind blank.

"Come on," she says. "Help me into my dress. The show starts in twenty minutes."

She turns her back to you. Reaches for the red sequined gown.

You move to help her. Your hands are steady now. Something has shifted. Something has settled.

You belong to her.

You both do.

This is the third in a series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I | The Mentalist Part II

Thank you for reading. If you'd like to read more of my writing, please consider subscribing to my Substack: Responsive Male. It's free to join and you'll be notified when I release new content.

[theresponsivemale]

The Mentalist: Part II — The Wardrobe

Cabin 712 is not a cabin.

It's a suite. Two rooms connected by an arched doorway, deep carpet the color of champagne, a king bed draped in cream linens, and a sitting area with a velvet chaise where the morning light pools like warm amber.

The porthole is a window, floor-to-ceiling, and beyond it the sea stretches endless, blue and indifferent.

You stand just inside the doorway, clutching the strap of your bag, trying not to gape.

"Close the door, sweetheart."

Her voice comes from the bedroom. You close the door. The lock clicks with a sound that feels final, though you don't know why.

"In here."

You follow the voice.

Laurie is standing in front of an open wardrobe. The wardrobe is the size of a small room — floor-to-ceiling, dark wood, filled with garments on padded hangers.

She's wearing a silk robe, deep burgundy, tied loosely at her waist. She looks like she just woke up, or like she's about to go to sleep, or like she exists in some timeless space where morning and evening don't apply.

She turns when you enter. Her eyes travel over you — the uniform you ironed three times this morning, the shoes you polished, the nervous way you're holding your bag.

"Good. You're early. I like that."

She gestures to the wardrobe.

"This is your primary responsibility for the next seven days. Do you know how many costume changes I have per show?"

You shake your head.

"Three. Sometimes four, depending on the act. Plus dinner with the Captain. Plus cocktails with guests. Plus whatever else I'm scheduled for."

She runs her hand along a row of hangers. "That's twelve to fifteen outfits per day. Each one needs to be pressed, steamed, organized, and accessible. Each one has specific undergarments that go with it. Each one has shoes, accessories, jewelry."

She turns to face you fully.

"I've never had a male assistant before. I'm told men are hopeless with this sort of thing. Are you hopeless?"

"No," you say. Then, more firmly: "No. I can learn."

"Good answer." She smiles. "Let's start with the foundations."

She opens a drawer. It's filled with underwear. Not the kind you've seen in department stores or catalogs. These are delicate, intricate, made of lace and silk and things that look like they cost more than your rent.

"Touch them," she says.

You hesitate.

"Go on. You need to know the difference between them by feel, not just by sight."

You reach into the drawer. Your fingers brush against something so soft it barely registers as texture. You lift it — a triangle of black lace, so small it disappears in your palm.

"That's a thong," she says. "Minimal coverage. Worn under anything fitted. No panty lines. Do you know why that matters?"

You shake your head.

"Because when I'm on stage, every line matters. Every seam. Every shadow. The audience doesn't know they're looking at a thong. They just know something is right about the way I look. That's what you're responsible for. The invisible things that make the visible things work."

She pulls out another piece. This one is higher cut on the leg, with a wider band at the waist.

"French high cut. Creates the illusion of longer legs. Worn under evening gowns. You'll need to know which gowns call for which cut."

She holds it out to you. You take it. The fabric is smooth, cool, expensive.

"Now this." She pulls out a third. No lace. No seams. A smooth, flesh-colored triangle with adhesive strips. "C-String. No straps, no bands. Worn under the most revealing gowns. One wrong move and it slips. You'll need to check it before every entrance."

You're holding three pieces of her underwear in your hands. Your face is burning. Your cock is stirring, despite every effort to control it.

She notices.

"You're blushing, sweetheart." Her voice is warm, amused. "That's fine. This is all new to you. You're going to learn a lot this week."

She closes the drawer and opens another.

"Bras. You need to know the difference between a balconette, a demi-cup, a full coverage, a bralette, a sports bra, a push-up, and a plunge. Each one creates a different silhouette. Each one goes with a different neckline. I'll test you on this later."

She pulls out a black lace bra, holds it up. "This is a plunge. Worn with deep V-necks. The cups are angled to push everything inward and upward. Creates cleavage."

She hands it to you. The lace is soft, delicate. You can smell her on it — a faint, clean scent, like soap and something warmer underneath.

"Put it back. Gently."

You do.

"Now the skirts and dresses." She moves to the main wardrobe, pulls out a garment bag. "This is my opening number. Red sequins. Fitted. Floor-length slit. The undergarments for this are a seamless thong and a strapless push-up bra. Remember that."

She unzips the bag. The dress catches the light, sparkles, breathes.

"It's beautiful," you say.

"It is. And you're going to help me into it."

Your heart stops.

"Now?"

"Now." She turns her back to you. "The robe first."

She reaches back, finds your hand, guides it to the tie at her waist.

"Untie me."

Your fingers fumble. The silk is smooth, the knot is loose, but your hands are shaking. You manage to pull it free. The robe parts. She shrugs it off her shoulders and it falls to the floor in a pool of burgundy.

She's wearing nothing underneath.

You see her back. The curve of her spine. The swell of her hips. The way her waist narrows and flares. She's naked, standing in front of you, and you're holding her robe, and your cock is painfully hard.

"Don't stare, sweetheart. You'll have plenty of time to look. Right now, I need the bra. The strapless push-up. From the drawer."

You turn. You find it. You bring it to her.

"Hold it open for me."

You do. She turns around. Her breasts are full, pale, with dark nipples that are soft, unaroused. She steps into the bra, and then she waits.

"Now hook it."

Your hands are at her back. The hooks are small, delicate. You've never done this before. You fumble, miss, try again.

"Breathe," she says. "Slow down. You're rushing."

You take a breath. Your fingers steady. You hook the bra on the next try.

"Good boy. Now the panties."

You find them. The seamless thong. You hold it out. She steps into it, one leg at a time, and pulls it up. The fabric disappears between her cheeks. You can see the shape of her ass, perfect, framed by the thin straps.

"Now the dress."

You unzip the garment bag fully. The dress is heavier than you expected. You lift it, hold it open. She steps into it, pulls it up over her hips. The sequins catch the light. The fabric molds to her body like it was made for her.

"Zip me."

The zipper is at the back. You pull it up. Her skin is warm beneath your fingers. The dress fits her like a second skin. She looks incredible.

She turns to face you. Her eyes drop to your crotch. The tent is obvious. Unmistakable.

"Already?" She smiles. "We've barely started."

"I'm sorry," you whisper.

"Don't be. It's charming." She steps closer. "You're very responsive, sweetheart. I like that about you."

She reaches out, touches your chest, trails her fingers down your stomach, stops just above your belt.

"Your little guy is eager again today. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," you manage.

"Did you play with yourself last night? Thinking about me?"

Your face burns. "Yes."

"Good. I told you to." She steps closer. Her body is inches from yours. You can smell her perfume, her skin, something warm and intimate.

She reaches behind her back. The zipper of her dress whispers down. The red sequins part, and she shrugs the dress off her shoulders. It falls to the carpet in a shimmering pool at her feet.

She steps out of it. Turns her back to you.

Now she's wearing only the thong — that thin black triangle, the delicate straps disappearing between her cheeks. Her bare back curves into the swell of her hips. She looks over her shoulder at you.

"I think we need to take a minute," she says. "To train your little guy. He's been running things long enough, hasn't he?"

You can only nod.

"Good. Then let's start."

She turns fully to face you. Her hand finds yours, guides it to her hip, rests it there against her warm skin.

Your fingers find the waistband of the thong.

"Go on and take it off, sweetheart."

You sink to your knees in front of her.

The fabric is warm against your knuckles. She shifts her weight, lifts one hip, then the other, and you slide it down her legs.

The scrap of lace and silk comes away in your hands. You hold it for a moment, stunned by how little it is, how intimate, how hers.

"Bring it to your face."

You do. You press the thong to your nose without thinking, without deciding.

Her scent is concentrated here — that same musk you caught earlier, but deeper, richer, distilled by hours of wear. You inhale. Your eyes flutter closed.

"That's right, sweetheart. Breathe me in. I want you to know my smell better than any other smell in the world."

You can't stop. Your lungs fill with her. The fabric is soft against your lips, your nose. You nuzzle it like it's her, like you're already pressed against her, like—

"Give it here."

You hand it back. She drops it on the chaise. Then she steps closer. Her thighs are inches from your face. The dark triangle of her pussy is bare, exposed, glistening faintly in the morning light.

"Now come here. Properly."

She parts her thighs. You lean forward. Your nose touches her. Warm. Soft. The scent hits you like a wave — stronger than the thong, more alive, more her. You inhale. Deep. Desperate.

"That's it. Nuzzle me, sweetie. Like my little puppy. Just… take it in."

You press your face into her. Your nose moves through her folds, finding the crease where her thigh meets her body, the soft heat of her opening.

You snuffle against her pussy like you're searching for something buried. Her scent fills your lungs, your head, your entire world.

Her hand rests on the back of your head. "Good boy. Just like that. Breathe me in."

You nuzzle deeper. Your lips brush her. Your tongue flicks out without permission, tasting her — salt and musk and something sweet underneath.

She doesn't stop you. She doesn't encourage. She just lets you explore, lets you need, lets you drown.

Minutes pass. You lose track. Your world has shrunk to the space between her thighs. Her scent. Her warmth. The soft sounds she makes — a sigh, a hum, a murmured "that's it, sweetheart."

"Now, I want you to show me your penis."

The words cut through the fog. You pull back, dazed. She looks down at you, patient, amused.

"Go on. Take it out. I want to see him."

You fumble with your belt. Your fly. Your cock springs free — hard, aching, leaking against your stomach. The tip is dark, swollen, desperate.

She looks at it. Her expression softens.

"Oh, sweetheart. Look at him. He's so eager. So hard for me."

She doesn't touch it. She just looks. And somehow that's worse — that's better — that's everything.

"He wants to cum, doesn't he?"

You nod. Can't speak.

"He wants to be inside something. He wants to feel warmth around him. He wants to push and thrust and bury himself somewhere soft and wet."

She crouches down, bringing her face level with yours. Her eyes are warm, knowing.

"But he can't go inside me, can he? We established that."

You shake your head.

"No. He can't. But he can still feel something. He can still be close."

She shifts, extending one leg. Her calf is smooth, bare, inches from your cock.

"Come here. Between my legs."

You shuffle forward on your knees. Your cock brushes her calf. You gasp.

"That's it. Position yourself."

You move until your cock is nestled between her calves, the soft skin pressing against you from both sides. She closes her legs slightly, trapping you there.

"Now hump, sweetheart. Hump my legs. Breathe in my smell. Let yourself go."

You start to move. Slow at first. Experimental. Your cock slides between her calves, the friction soft and maddening.

Her scent is still in your nose, still flooding your lungs. You press your face against her thigh as you move, inhaling her, tasting her skin.

"That's it. That's my good boy. Just hump my legs like the little puppy you are."

Your hips find a rhythm. Your cock slides back and forth between her calves, slick with your own leaking. It's not enough — it's never enough — but it's everything. Her skin. Her smell. Her voice.

"You're so hard, sweetheart. So desperate. Can you feel how much you need this?"

"Mmmnnngh — yes —"

"Can you feel how close you are? How your little guy is twitching, begging, ready to explode?"

"Y-yes — please —"

"Please what?"

"Please — I need — I can't —"

"Can't what?"

Her hand finds your hair. Strokes. Gentle. Soothing.

"Can't hold it — I'm gonna —"

"Are you ready to give him to me?"

You look up at her. Her eyes are steady, certain.

"Your penis. Are you ready to give him to me? Completely? No taking him back?"

"Yes," you gasp. "Yes, please, take him, he's yours —"

"Say it clearly, sweetheart. Say 'I give you control of my penis.'"

"I give you control of my penis. I give him to you. He's yours."

She smiles. Warm. Triumphant.

"And I accept. I am now the manager of your penis. His pleasure is mine to give or withhold. His erections are mine to authorize or deny. Do you understand?"

"Yes. Yes, I understand."

"Good boy. Now keep humping. Keep breathing me in. And listen to my voice."

You move. Faster. Desperate. Your cock slides between her calves, slick and hot and aching.

"I'm going to count to ten. And when I reach ten, you're going to cum. You're going to cum harder than you've ever cum. You're going to cum because I let you cum. Do you understand?"

"Yes — please —"

"One."

You thrust. Inhale her.

"Two."

Your cock throbs between her legs.

"Three."

Her hand in your hair. Gentle. Claiming.

"Four."

You're trembling. Every muscle tight.

"Five."

Her scent. Her voice. Her warmth.

"Six."

You're close. So close. Hovering.

"Seven."

A whimper escapes your throat.

"Eight."

Your hips are rocking. Uncontrollable.

"Nine."

Right on the edge. Waiting. Begging.

"Ten."

You cum.

It rips through you like a wave. Your whole body convulses. Your cock pulses between her calves, spraying hot against her skin, against the carpet, against your own stomach.

You moan into her thigh — a sound that's half sob, half prayer — and she holds your head, strokes your hair, murmurs "good boy, good boy, that's it, let it out."

You collapse. Your forehead rests against her shin. Your breath comes in ragged gasps. Your cum is cooling on her legs, on the carpet, on you.

She steps back. Looks down at the mess.

"Clean it up."

You look up at her.

"With your tongue."

You lower your head. You lick her calf. You taste yourself — salty, bitter. You lick the carpet where your cum has splattered. She watches, patient, still.

When you're done, she smiles.

"Good boy." She touches your cheek. "I hope you enjoyed that, sweetheart. Because that's the last erection you'll have without my permission."

You blink. "What?"

"Your penis is under new management." She says it gently, as if explaining something obvious. "He belongs to me now. He won't get hard unless I say so. He won't cum unless I allow it."

"But — how — I don't —"

"No cage. No lock. Nothing physical." She taps your forehead. "Just your mind. You gave him to me, and now he's mine. He'll only rise when I call him. He'll only squirt when I give the word."

You look down at your cock. It's soft. Limp. Satisfied. Useless.

"Don't worry, sweetheart." She bends down, kisses your forehead. "I'll take good care of him. You'll see."

She straightens and smiles down at you.

"That's enough for today. You're free until seven tonight. Dress rehearsal. Same place. Don't be late."

You stand on shaky legs. Your trousers are still undone. Your cock is soft, surrendered, hers.

You tuck yourself away. You zip your fly. You walk to the door.

"Sweetheart."

You turn.

She's standing in front of the mirror, adjusting her hair, not looking at you.

"Thank you for your service."

The words land like a benediction. Like a receipt. Like proof that something has been exchanged, something irrevocable.

"Yes," you say. "Thank you."

You leave.

The door clicks shut behind you.

And somewhere, deep in your chest, a part of you that you didn't know existed whispers:

He belongs to her now.

This is the second in a new series about a mentalist who sees what men hide, a cruise ship that becomes a cage, and the seven days it takes for a virgin to learn exactly what his little guy is for — one whispered confession, one sealed envelope, one devastating prediction at a time.

Previously: The Mentalist Part I

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